


I Win, Mars

by meholstein



Series: Watch Mark Watney Live [2]
Category: The Martian (2015), The Martian - All Media Types, The Martian - Andy Weir
Genre: Dissociation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Flashbacks, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-17
Updated: 2016-11-24
Packaged: 2018-08-09 07:31:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 138,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7792390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meholstein/pseuds/meholstein
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You didn't just have to save him. You have to put him back together, too.</p><p>Ares 3 was in time to save Mark's life, but not quite his mind. The Hermes has hundreds of days of space travel before they all get back to Earth. It's a ship running without maintenance, and the primary engineer has the world's most severe case of PTSD. What happens? Canon-compliant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is constantly evolving. I'm updating chapters I've already posted, all the time. If you've read it before, there's a good chance it's changed since you've read it. It's my evolving attempt to understand Mark, and the crew, and all they've went through.
> 
> This is canon compliant on it's own, but I highly recommend you read it's prequel first. The prequel is basically the emotional and psychological side of being on Mars, and I reference feelings he has in that prequel a lot in this story.

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 687

I’m fucking _back_.

I’m standing in the airlock, hunched over from my broken ribs, screaming dying down in my throat (from the pain) and also crying more than I’d like to admit. Everyone is cheering into my helmet at a volume that will definitely give me a migraine, and I could listen to it forever.

I’m not on Mars anymore.

For the first time in a long time, I’m not on Mars. I feel displaced, like I’m in a different world. A much better one.

“Are you okay?” Beck asked, as everyone else’s whooping died down.

I’m struggling to catch a good breath. Between the crying and the screaming and the 12gs, I’m _exhausted_.

I flip my radio on. “Uh, no, my chest really hurts,” I pant. Suddenly, in stark contrast to Beck’s voice, I can hear how strained mine is. Beck’s voice is smooth and comforting, and mine is ragged and broken.

“Go limp, I’ll push you to my quarters,” Beck commanded. Standard procedure on the Hermes; injured people go limp and others get them to safety, to avoid further injury. Serious injury on a spacecraft (away from a hospital) can be disastrous.

“Try not to talk or move, you don’t want to strain anything. You just pulled 12gs,” he says. I’m aware I just pulled 12gs, everyone has made it a point to inform me multiple times. _Fastest man in the history of space travel_. There’s a reason we don’t shoot people into space that fast.

I’m in a different world, and this different world has _humans other than me. I’m not alone_.

Being pushed through the Hermes is a spiritual experience. My eyes are drinking in the sight, memorizing every detail in a way they never did on Mars. Who cares about Mars? It’s literally just a pile of dust so big it got it’s own gravity. The real action is on Earth, with plants and mountains and rivers, where someone can be stranded naked in a forest and still somehow survive. A planet that needs billions of dollars of life-support is no planet at all.

I can feel myself getting lightheaded as he pushes me through the ship. My eyes are roving around, but I’m unable to properly focus on anything. I’m glad Beck is pushing me and I don’t have to actually pull my sorry ass through the ship. It’s been a really exhausting Sol.

Once Beck and I got to his quarters, we waited for the ship to repressurize. Hermes had enough spare air to refill the ship two more times if needed. It'd be a pretty shitty long-range ship if it couldn't recover from a decompression.

Repressurizing takes a while, though. It was easy enough (close the outside airlock door with one button, repressurize with the other). Gotta pump a lot of air into the entire thing, and while it’s happening everyone has to go check over the ship for air leaks and structural integrity. There’s a procedure for that, and we all know it, and it includes everyone suiting up and floating around the ship to inspect every little damn thing.

“Wait, if everyone’s busy doing inspections…” I say, “Who’s flying the ship?”

Everyone explodes into laugher, and the sound is too perfect to describe, tinkling like a waterfall of light. I’m so happy I don’t even stop to reflect on how gay that feeling is.

“Before you start wondering, Beck and Johanssen are an item now and yes, everyone on the ship is aware,” Lewis’s voice says, and I can hear the smile in her tone.

“Million mile high club, nice,” I say.

I can practically feel the eyeroll he gives me. “Martinez said the same thing.”

They’re all still laughing. It’s a beautiful sound.

So, Beck listened to my advice. I’m not dead, but the fact that they listened to my last-words slash advice puts a warm feeling in the center of my chest. I’m glad they did, they’re perfect for each other, somehow. “Gross,” I quip.

“I know,” Martinez agreed. “They, like, publicly display affection. It’s nasty.”

“He tries to,” Johanssen says in a very businesslike tone. “Honestly, usually I’m busy.”

“It is rather funny,” Vogel admits, now visible floating behind Beck in his quarters. “She will push him away, but he always tries again.”

I knew what he meant; Johanssen was not a woman easily distracted from her work, and I’m sure Beck comes up and bothers her while she’s trying to get work done. Beck was a professional dewey-eyed star-crossed lover, but Johanssen was a pile of workaholism and confusion. That’s how she managed to become an astronaut at 26, and that’s how they managed not to confess their feelings for each other for 4 years of training.

But, I was going to give Beck shit about it all the same. “Already regretting it, Johanssen?” I laugh.

“Are we sure we should have came back for him?” Beck says, not a second later.

It’s been less than ten minutes since I got back, and they’re already cracking jokes about it. I love these guys.

I laugh with them this time. It’s the first time I am around people again, so I listen to the sound, and it’s… really rough, and sort of frightening, so I stop. Hearing myself gave me an unsettling feeling in the pit of my stomach.

I want to be out of this space suit, god damn it. I want to actually see _them_ , not just Beck and Vogel’s space suits hovering in his quarters, everyone else a voice in my ear. He’s got photos everywhere, but they’re not anything I haven’t seen before. I want to see _people_.

“ETA?” I say. Again, my voice sounds ragged. I must have forgotten what real people sound like on Mars, because I sound _awful_.

“Twenty minutes,” Johanssen’s reassuring voice filters in through the radio.

“Ughhh,” Martinez says, as if he’s filling in for me. Shit, he’s probably been filling in for all my shit comments while I was gone, I know he could predict what I would say in any given situation with an alarming degree of accuracy.

“It’s kind of weird just looking at your spacesuit,” Beck admits. “I know you’re in there, but you’re just floating there.”

We are both floating in Beck’s quarters, because nobody has turned the gravity back on yet (i.e. made the spaceship spin). I just look like an empty spacesuit to them, limp because I’m injured and the reflective glass hiding my face. I’m an unwrapped package, and nobody knows what’s inside.

Except me. I know what’s inside. A disaster.

“The EVA suit is also weird,” Vogel joins in. “The green looks strange in the Hermes.” The martian EVA suits were sent beforehand in the supply missions, due to their much larger mass and loads of redundant science equipment. We were never supposed to see a Mars EVA suit on board the Hermes. I’ll bet it gives them the same wrong feeling the empty landing struts gave me, but with a lot less suicide.

“It is an awful color of green,” I agree. “I spent a lot of time thinking about that, actually.”

“You don’t need to spend time thinking to know that that’s puke-green,” Martinez joins in.

“I mean, I’m glad it’s green. Kind of reminded me of Earth.”

Their voices go awkwardly silent. Did I say something weird?

Upon reflection, my tone was kind of desperate. Everything I’m saying right now is kind of desperate. I feel a little high, like I’m not all there. I mean, I am high, I took a respectable amount of opiates and got shot into the upper martian atmosphere at 12gs.

“Sorry guys,” I laugh nervously. “I haven’t talked to anyone in a while.”

“It’s all right,” Beck reassures me. He’s got a good reassurance-voice, all smooth and calming. Good ship doctor voice.

I clear my throat. “Social skills are rusty.”

“I’m surprised your voice is even working,” Beck said, in a making-conversation tone of voice.

I’m sure the next thing I want to say is weird, so I try to couch it in a joke. “I talk to myself a lot now. Wanted to make sure that when I got back I seemed _extra_ crazy.”

Nobody gave me a joking response, though. Ugh.

“That’s some surprisingly forward thinking,” Beck says after a beat, clearly trying to recover.

Yeah, but it wasn’t because I was trying to preserve my voice. More to hear the sound of something other than beeping machinery. But even I realize that’s a little too heavy to say.

“You’re the first people I’ve seen in 543 sols, the least you can do is pretend my jokes are funny,” I say. They laugh, not out of pity (I think), but because that actually was a good joke.

“Pressurization complete!” Johanssen’s voice rings out. “All clear. Remove your flight suits.”

“Let me get yours after I get mine,” Beck says, taking the helmet off his suit. Vogel, too, begins to take his off.

I’m content to sit and wait limply. I’m fucking exhausted. Did I mention that before? I’m so aware of how hard I was working down there. Even on my days off, I was brutally fucking exhausted. My back has hurt like someone stuck a knife in it for the last six months, but somehow I stopped noticing. My stomach is a cavern, it’s larger and emptier than Lewis Valley. My chest is hurting like I’ve been trampled, my entire body hurts like somebody set my blood on fire.

Man, I feel like total shit. I’d like to lay in a bed until next year, and that’s saying a lot, because I spent most of my time on Mars laying in bed.

Beck’s got his entire spacesuit off now, and I can see his body. He’s wearing the standard issue NASA jumpsuit, and it outlines his entire natural human physical form. I can see muscles, sinew, and can practically see the human warmth and life. Of course, I start crying again. Human body, human muscles, the sounds of breath and life are all so near me. It’s been so long since I’ve seen a normal fucking human. I’m more dewey-eyed than Beck is when he sees Johanssen in a dress.

When Beck takes _my_ helmet off, he just looks shocked.

“I look that bad?” I laugh, motioning with my gloved hand towards the red watery mess I know my face is. “There aren’t any tissues in a spacesuit.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head back and forth rigidly. “It’s…” He pulls a face, smiling even while cringing. “you smell, dude.”

The inanity of the comment made me laugh, kind of hard. Then I gasped, because that hurt.

“What?” He said, working on getting the suit off.

“I forgot!” I said, still laughing shallowly. “I just got so used to it.”

I realize a second later what that statement implies, but Beck just resolutely ignores it.

For a second, I think about what I must look like. Red faced, crying, eyes wide, skeletally thin, bruised, deranged haircut, laughing. I fall silent.

I see Martinez floating by the door. “Well you better get un-used to it,” Martinez says gamely, waving his hand in front of his face from the smell. “Dude, oh my _lord_. The Hermes is going to be working for days filtering this air.”

I wonder if they all got together beforehand and agreed on how to treat me when I got back. I bet they did, because the fact that they’re cracking jokes and treating everything normally is exactly what I need right now.

I see people lingering at the door, eyes peeking in. They’re all trying to keep the… shock, I think, their faces are all twisted. Whatever it is, they’re trying to keep it off their faces with varying degrees of success.

“Come in, guys,” I say. They all float in, too, pulling faces but saying nothing. “Yeah, yeah, Beck already told me. Mars doesn’t have showers, okay?”

“No, they can’t come in yet,” Beck says. “Medical crap comes first.”

They look forlorn, and I shrug. “Sorry guys, doctor says,” I say. As they leave, I feel like my heart is being ripped out _all fucking over again_ , but I know they’ll be there when we’re done so I just bite my tongue until it bleeds.

I’m just so elated to see their normal, human bodies, their human hair, their funny faces and the sounds of voices in my ear. Real voices, not through a radio or a computer but their _real voices._ Nobody tells you how musical real voices sound, all beautiful notes blending together.

Beck gets me all the way out of the suit, and the first thing he notices is how limply my clothes hang off of my form.

“Whose clothes are these?” Beck asked, astonished.

He already knew the answer. The names are printed on the sides. _Beth Johanssen_.

After the RTG baths, I ditched my clothes because they had become so disgusting they were irredeemable, and I had started to fit Johanssen’s clothes better anyways. I would have just went without, except that you pretty much have to wear something under the EVA suit due to the fact that the padding on the inside is scratchy and uncomfortable. I… didn’t think of the fact that I would need clothes on the MAV before I left, so I’m glad I happened to bring the jumpsuit along. Beck’s probably going to cut it off anyways though, in the name of a physical exam or whatever.

I cast my eyes down, somehow ashamed. I’m not modest by any stretch, but something about the disgusting, sorry state I’m in makes me upset. It’s not that I don’t want to be seen this way; it’s that I don’t want Beck to _have_ to see it. Nobody should have to see this.

“Hey, it’s all right,” he said mildly, shoving the EVA suit out the door so that someone else can put it away. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen a lot worse.”

There’s just no way that’s not a lie. Beck is a flight surgeon who spends more half his time as a biologist. He hasn’t seen shit. A few broken bones maybe, dissected cadavers, but I look like… one of those starving African children. Worse.

“Don’t we need gravity to do medical crap?” I ask, grasping for something to fill the awkward silence.

Beck shakes his head, pointing towards the examination table. “Nope, we can just tie you to the table.” True to his word there are wrist, torso and ankle straps, presumably for using the ultrasound or other tools that require pressure. In 0g, if you poke someone with something, they just float away.

“Fun,” I say dryly, as he pushes me to the table and straps me in.

Inside of ten minutes, my x-ray is done. Turns out I’ve only got two broken ribs, and there’s not much you can do for a broken rib.

“I’m going to bandage it,” Beck declares.

“Why? You just said there isn’t anything you can do about a broken rib,” I said.

“The pressure of the bandages will help keep everything in place. It’ll make you feel better,” he insists. That sounds like a load crap to me, but he’s the doctor.

Beck’s face turns soft. “Mark, I know you probably won’t like this, but NASA insisted I do a full physical before you shower, or sleep, or do anything else.”

NASA considered it unnecessary to send along those paper robes doctors normally have, so I’ll be completely naked. That isn’t a problem in and of itself; we were naked in front of each other tons of times during training. One, we had small shared locker rooms, two, lots of the training involved emergency situations and cutting off clothes, and three, they didn’t want us to make stupid mistakes in space because we were abashed so created excuses for us to be naked more than once. Hell, Beck’s our primary doctor while we’re on board and most of us are over 40, so he has the dubious privilege of doing all our regular physicals.

But back then, I was healthy. Whole.

“Really? Why?” I protest.

“Because if you have internal bleeding, something else broken, or any of the other complications a 12g launch might have, the pressure of a shower or the time it takes to sleep could kill you.”

He was right, I knew he was right, if any of my organs were upset about that convertible launch then they could kill me and it would be incredibly stupid to die right after I got on board.

I nodded my assent, closed my eyes, and unzipped the jumpsuit. If my eyes are closed, I can’t see Beck’s horrified face.

It feels like my suffering is on display.

Beck’s a good doctor, sees my situation, and immediately starts up a stream of endless chatter to fill the air. “Tell me on a scale of 0 to 10 if it hurts,” he says.

First, a general pain inventory. My back, my stomach, my feet, my knees, how much does everything hurt? I’m talking, and for now Beck isn’t asking how all these things happened, just how badly they hurt now, and I don’t offer any explanations, I’m talking and still talking and by the end it feels like I’ve described every part of my body because every single part of my body hurts. As I talk he runs his hands over injuries, poking and prodding and checking for deeper problems, holding up his stethoscope and listening.

Beck keeps up the steady stream of chatter as he asks me to raise my arms as much as I can (which isn’t much), runs his hands over my sides, pokes me everywhere with his gloved fingers asking if this hurts, and that hurts, “How badly does it hurt on a scale of 1 to 10 when I poke?” My answers are minimal, mumbled, and I open my eyes but keep them downcast, away from Beck and whatever he’s doing. A 3 there, a 5 there, “Jesus fucking christ, 7” right in the small of my back, and it turns out I’m partially numb in some of my toes. This goes on forever, it hurts everywhere he pokes, and by the end I just want it to be over.

It’s over soon enough, and Beck hits the wall radio, “Johanssen, get a sweatshirt and one of your sweatpants?” he says. As he turns away, I look up, catch the sight of myself in a wall mirror.

My ribcage, collarbone, shoulderblades, everything is sticking out of everywhere by now. I’m more skeleton than man. I quickly look away.

“Time for bandages,” he says, and he keeps chattering as he practically mummifies me with expensive NASA wraps.

His hands touch me as he wraps the bandage around me, and I do my damnedest to hide how it makes the inside of my chest tear with something hot and new. I settle for biting my tongue to stop my breath from catching, and I’m praying to God that Beck will take mercy on me and just let his hand linger on me.

An old me might have just leapt at him to hug him, but something in me was stopping me.

As Johanssen arrives with the clothes, a crack in the door allows her to get a look at me, and all I see is her eyes bulge as the door is closed. Beck hands me the clothes, turning away to busy himself and give me some privacy.

As I put them on, I think they must be all huddled by the door, because Beck stares at the closed door for a minute, opens it to stare at what’s on the other side for another minute, sighs, and then throws the door open.

“Mark!” Johanssen says as she enters the room, arms already up for a hug.

It _pains_ me to say it, but I say “Don’t hug me,” sort-of holding a hand up. “My ribs are broken.” But it’s not that, not _just_ that that stops me.

I want to leap at them, hug them all, but all of a sudden I _can’t_.

She rolls her eyes and sort of holds her hand up.

For a moment, I’m confused. She’s holding her hand out, her face is completely even, so I can’t read it. What the fuck does she want with my hand?

I just sort of… high-five it.

She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind, and everyone else does, and I realized that she wanted to _hold_ my hand. She and I both start laughing at the stupidity, everyone starts laughing, laughing because _oh God I’m rescued,_ we’re all laughing as they high five me.

God, their laugher hasn’t stopped being beautiful, I’m staring at their faces, I didn’t think I’d ever see a human face again, they’re alive and here and talking to _me_. I’m not dead anymore, I’m alive, I’m alive and finally with my crew. The urge to cry bursts into my chest, strong and hot.

_Do not cry Watney you are Not in your spacesuit they can all See You._

I cry anyways. What the fuck do you want from me?

Beck hands me a towel, which I’m thankful for, because even before the crying my face is a mess from all the screaming I did in the EVA suit.

Everyone else high fives me while I’m holding the towel up to my face with the other hand, hiding tears leaking out of my eyes. “Sorry about…” I say, gesturing to myself. “It’s been a hard two years.” My voice is thick holding back emotion, and I’m laughing through it. It’s positively cliche.

“But it’s over now,” Martinez says. “You’re with us now.” The smile on his face is warm and soft, and everyone else’s faces light up with the same soft smile, all directed at _me_. My eyes water anew.

Martinez, Beck, Johanssen are at the forefront, eyes bright and shining and happy and trying to talk animatedly to me. Vogel stands back, smiling wider than I’ve ever seen and standing next to Lewis, who looks like she’s in pain. Johanssen wasn’t kidding about her taking this hard.

“All right, everyone out, the guy needs rest,” Beck commandeered after a beat. “Watney, as soon as you can move your arms, shower. Then call for one of us, we’ll bring you food.”

I’d forgotten I was _literally starving to death_ until he said that, but then the ferocious hunger hit me and I realize it felt like someone roundhouse kicked me in the stomach, and I’m surprised I didn’t literally fall into the bed in pain.

I had maybe two months left when they rescued me, and I’d started getting antsy about things and eating 1/2 rations whenever I could. Hey, 3/4 rations did nothing to ease the shredding pain in my stomach, so I might as well eat 1/2 and save some food just in case…

It was getting milder by the second, though, because after the physical Beck poked me with a needle and now I realize that needle probably was full of Oxycodone.

I collapsed on Beck’s cot as everyone else filed out. It’s cold, so I nestle under the blankets. I’m probably dirtying Beck’s nice clean sheets but I don’t care; I’ll trade him out if he cares so much.

By the time the painkillers allow me to move my arms, I’m asleep.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 687

I blink my eyes open, crusted and exhausted. My entire body is sore, a standard Martian morning. I lay there for a moment, because on Mars there is absolutely no reason I need to force myself to get up at a particular time.

As soon as I’m ready for the day, I open my eyes.

As soon I open my eyes, I realize _I’m on the fucking Hermes._

 _OH MY GOD_ , I think, sitting up quickly, gasping rather loudly. But that turns out to be a mistake, and I feel stabbing in my abdomen, so my gasp turns into a grunt of pain as I jerk forward, hissing through my teeth.

“Jesus, Watney!” Beck says, startling. His jerking motion surprised me, and then I jerked back in surprise too, which a second later left both of us feeling really stupid as we blinked at each other.

He seems to have taken up a chair next to my bed, reading something on his laptop. I thought they left their laptops down there? Maybe they had spares on the Hermes.

“Watching me sleep? Kinky motherfucker,” I say, hunching over my middle.

Beck shakes his head at me. “Go get a shower, Watney. You’re rank.” He snaps shut the laptop and bounces out of the quarters, presumably escaping eau de Mars.

I don’t need told twice. I haul myself out of the cot and go for a shower. While I was asleep, the gravity was turned up, but not more than 0.2g by my estimation. I can walk fine and my body can mostly hold it’s own weight, so the low gravity amble to the shower was doable. The shower was also in the 1g zone, because it wouldn’t be much of a shower if the water couldn’t fall.

Bouncing through the hall was surreal. I could see everyone else’s personal effects, could see where they’d pinned photos up. Could see the blackness of space out of the windows. It isn’t Mars. This isn’t Mars. I’m not on Mars. I’ve escaped. I literally can’t believe it. It feels like a dream.

This shower, this, my first shower back, was a downright spiritual experience. I’ve always been one to prefer baths, but there was something about the light pressure of water against my back that made my head and my heart light. Not to mention all the drugs made everything feel amazing.

Beck got me really high. I’m not arguing.

I very shamelessly take a long shower, going _well_ over our personal time limit of ten minutes. I haven’t had a shower in a year and a half, and I figured I was doing the crew a service as much as I was doing myself one, so that justified taking up an entire forty minutes to shower. No one knocked at the door to stop me, which only serves as further justification.

Very early on, I ran out of toilet paper. And paper towels. And paper. And small hand towels, and clothes. So, there was a _massive_ amount of dirt and other nasty shit in the shower, pooling at the drain like brown sludge. After I stepped out, I just let the shower run another couple seconds until it all went down the drain. Gonna have to tell someone that the Hermes water reclaimer will need to deal with that. But if I recall correctly, unlike my water reclaimer, The Hermes’ is actually capable of dealing with mineral water and contamination. Man, life on the Hermes is all luxury.

I get out of the shower, and look on the shelves. Toothpaste, toothbrushes and floss have been set out for me, my brands. Must have been sent up with the Taiyang Shen. Wait, I was gone, I never used up my entire allotment, so I still have all of that for the trip home. I brush my teeth, but mostly because I haven’t brushed my teeth for months and I’ll feel disgusting if I don’t at least try. But I don’t put a lot of energy into the effort, because I used to like mint toothpaste but as I put the toothbrush in my mouth I discover it’s way too strong and bitter, and I almost spit it out in disgust.

I bounced back to Beck’s quarters, to find him instead standing in the hall as if he were waiting for me. He probably was.

“You might like your quarters better, they’re warmer,” he said in a sort of strangled voice, pointing down the hall.

I’m thinking he probably wants his own quarters back. The Hermes has separate bunk rooms, because NASA headshrinks decided it was better for astronauts and worth the multi-million-dollar expense. They’re tiny, but they’re separate, and they even have doors and everything (doors that don’t lock, but beggars can’t be choosers).

As soon as I walk through the door, I understand why Beck’s voice was strangled.

My photographs are all over the wall. So many photographs, I didn’t realize I own so much. All the people I’ve ever loved. I’m floored, looking at the room I haven’t seen in over a year and a half, all the photos of my loved ones staring back at me.

I walk towards the wall, pick one of the family down. My mother’s face is so beautiful.

I didn’t have anything but the memory of their faces. Human brains aren’t perfect, and they don’t remember details. They don’t remember faces. I came to the horrifying realization down there that I was forgetting everyone’s face. My mom’s perfect eyes were sparkling out of the photograph, specially printed on photo paper for my room. I thought I would die before I ever saw it again.

“The heating system is malfunctioning,” Beck offered as explanation for the heat, his voice distant in my ear. “But your body weight is so low I figured you’d appreciate it.”

My laptop, media stick and personal effects are sitting on the bed in their box, where I packed them. Vogel wanted my help with something right before launch, and it ended up taking so long that I had to leave them behind. I didn’t care at the time, because it was only 31 Sols. I even remember callously thinking ‘ _It’s not like I’ll die without it_.’

Beck is still talking, but I don’t hear him. That stupid media stick could have changed my entire life there. As it is, the only thing I ever hear in my head anymore is Stayin Alive by the Bee Gees and I Will Survive by Gloria Gaynor. Okay, that’s a little dramatic. The media stick wouldn’t have really mattered in the end, and even with my music and tv it would have still been Mars.

But the photos… those would have actually changed my life.

Choked up, I turn to address Beck, but he’s disappeared. It’s a little alarming to me that I didn’t notice him disappearing.

I hit the wall radio button instead. “I want food,” I say, knowing it will echo in the whole ship.

“Any particular kind of food?” It’s Johanssen who answers.

My voice still has that slightly hysterical edge. “Not potatoes!”

“Got it,” came Beck’s voice from the radio, presumably in the rec room.

Soon, Beck was back with the food. He stood there and watched me eat it, although I barely sat down before all the food was gone. I barely noticed what it was, something easy on the stomach like rice or reconstituted bread or I don’t know what. It could have been mush, for all I care. I inhaled it like I’ve never seen food in my life, because I haven’t seen food in a long fucking time.

“Where’s the rest?” I say, holding up the plate.

Beck gave me a regretful look. “You can’t overfeed victims of starvation. It’s fatal.”

My voice is whiny like a child’s. “I was only at 3/4 rations! I wasn’t starving!” Beck turns a piercing doctorly eye on me, sensing the lie in my voice. “…most of the time.”

He gestures with his arm, as if to say ‘can you believe this guy?’ is Beck Italian? Could he even say it with the accent? “Are you Italian?” I snicker.

Well, it would seem I don’t have a brain-mouth filter anymore. Hardly surprising.

“What?” Beck just asks blankly, and I laugh with relief.

The food hits my stomach, I’m freaking exhausted again. I flop back into my bed. “Beck, I’m gonna take a nap,” I say, already feeling sleepiness pull at my eyelids.

Beck just nods, and I’m asleep before he shuts the door.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 687

**A Little Earlier**

Beck is sitting in a chair next to Watney, who is asleep so deeply Beck wondered at least twice whether he had fallen into a light coma. But using his very doctorly doctoring, he poked Watney, and determined that no, he’s just asleep.

Beck is typing away on his laptop, and has resolved that if Watney doesn’t wake up in the next two hours, Beck is going to wake him up and make him take that shower. The stench is impossible, and he doesn’t want the Hermes filters to have to work too hard getting rid of it.

But Watney hasn’t had a chance to rest in so long, Beck can’t bring himself to take it from him over a smell. So Beck gets past it, wrinkling his nose and sitting in the room with the door closed, hoping that will at least contain it to this bunk room.

Suddenly Watney jerks, slamming his body forward out of bed, and the motion is so sudden Beck starts in his chair. Beck hears his hiss of pain as he sits up. “Jesus, Watney!” Beck blinked at Watney, and Watney blinked back at Beck.

“Watching me sleep? Kinky motherfucker,” He pants, hand still at his side. He gives a grin to go with the joke, yellowed and toothy and 100% Mark Watney.

“Go get a shower, Watney. You’re rank.” Beck says, snapping the laptop shut and reading. Watney doesn’t need babysat to get a shower, and Beck wants a moment away from the smell.

But after Watney left for the shower, Beck didn’t leave the quarters hallway. He floated there, standing where Watney had retreated from.

Out of the corner of his eye, Watney’s quarters lingered.

None of them had gone in there, not even after Watney had been declared alive again. The separate bunk rooms were private spaces, and nothing short of a life or death situation was enough to overcome the door being left in the Do Not Enter position. No one wanted to go in there, even when they discovered Watney was alive, knowing he might not ever make it back.

Beck decided that Watney should be in his own quarters again.

It took him about half an hour to pack up all the emergency medical supplies into a few boxes, and put them in the hall to move into the room. He wasn’t going to go into Watney’s bunkroom without his permission. After he finished this task, he waited.

He didn’t have to wait long for Watney to reappear, complete with wild hair and bony shoulders.

“You might like your quarters better, they’re warmer,” Beck said, voice thick. Watney gives him a strange look, but opens the door and walks in.

Watney completely misses the significance as he steps in casually, uncaring. _Mark’s home,_ coming home so casually like it’s nothing, like he wasn’t dead, like he wasn’t dying and gone, steps into his quarters easily like it isn’t a fucking _miracle_ that he’s here at all.

The moment Watney steps through his door, he comes to a halt. Beck sees his eyes, roving over the photographs Watney had pinned all over his wall, mouth open in a small ‘o.’

It doesn’t take Beck long to move the boxes into Watney’s room while he stands there, staring at he photos. Beck stands and looks at Watney, just as Watney picks a photograph from the wall. He brings his other hand over the photograph, fingers gently tracing the outline of his mother’s face.

“The heating system is malfunctioning,” Beck offers quietly. “But your body weight is so low I figured you’d appreciate it.”

Watney gives no indication that he can hear Beck, still absorbed in the heavy color print photo that he’s holding.

 _He didn’t have any personal effects on Mars_ , Beck realizes, and he immediately backs out of the room and shuts the door. Beck couldn’t deny the cold feeling drenching him, like ice being poured over his shoulders. _He didn’t have any photographs_.

Beck has retreated to the rec room by the time the radio comes on. “I want food,” Watney’s whining into the comm.

“Any particular kind of food?” Johanssen answers, before Beck.

“Not potatoes.” Beck doesn’t miss the hysterical edge.

“Got it,” Beck says. He makes something not potatoes, and hurriedly brings it to Watney.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 687

I’m so elated I think I might float away. I’m elated like when I was accepted into the Ares III mission - that had been my only goal for six years of my life. It was an amazing feeling. Except I’m more elated, far more, because escaping has been the _only_ thing I’ve been thinking about for the past 18 months, and achieving this goal means I get to _live_. It’s making my heart bubble up in my chest every time I think about it.

I might also be high from Beck’s drugs, but I am Mark Watney - Space Pirate, I can do what I want.

This feels like a cross between a hallucinogenic dream and a vacation. The situation is different, the environment is different, it’s a different bed, I’m being taken care of, and part of me is waiting for it all to be over and to be time to go home (back to Mars) again.

I’m telling myself “You’re not going back, you’re not going back” but I can’t convince myself. There’s a knot in my chest that is just so fucking sure it’s all a dream.

I’m not getting ahead of myself. I could die on the way back to Earth, too. I still might never see Earth.

But it’s not dying on Mars, and frankly that thrills me to pieces all on it’s own. Fuck you, Mars. Man I am so glad… I’m so glad I didn’t just kneel into the dirt. It was worth it, all of it, just to see my crew again. Easy for me to say now that it’s in the past, yeah yeah I know.

I’m exhausted, and that hot shower made me feel even more so. And my stomach is finally full, I finally am not hungry, which is just making me more sleepy. I’m sleeping, and I’m sleeping a _long_ time because I don’t have to get up and do anything tomorrow. Or the next day, or the next day, or any day until I tell Lewis I want to, because I don’t care what they think and they can’t make me do shit.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 688

The crew, sans Watney, were in the rec room eating their lunch. Watney was missed at breakfast, which was entirely expected. Beck had informed the crew in broad terms that he was very tired, and malnourished, and would be sleeping a very long time. But he’d been back for hours, and the crew hadn’t seen him yet, and were beginning to get antsy.

“He still isn't awake?” Johanssen said, stirring her oatmeal listlessly.

“Nope,” Beck said. “Guy’s tired.” Beck had been poking his head in on Watney every few hours. He was sleeping every time, sleeping so heavily it amazed Beck.

“He's been asleep for, like, seventeen hours!” Johanssen protested, as if this would change the situation.

Back shrugged. “He should be. Three days ago he was half starved, half crazy, solo, pulling Hull Panel 19 off of the Mav. That's 400kg. Even in Martian gravity, that ain't light.”

The image of Watney, starved, teeth bared, yelling, using his skeletal frame to rip Hull Panel 19 off flashed through everyone’s minds.

“All right,” she relented. “I'm just… Eager to see him, that's all.”

“We all are,” Lewis says quietly.

They sit at the table silently, eating their lunch.

“Anyone thought about what they’re gonna say?” Martinez said.

“You sound like you have something in mind,” Lewis remarked.

Martinez grinned. “I prepared some puns.”

Everyone else groaned as Martinez whipped out his tablet and started reading.

“What do you give an alien? Some _space_.” Martinez waggled his eyebrows. “What do you call a crazy spaceman? An astro- _nut_. What did the doctor say to the rocket? Time to get your booster shot. Because, you know, Beck has to give him -”

“We get it, Martinez,” Johanssen said dryly, a smile playing on her face.

Martinez continues. “How do astronauts serve dinner? On flying saucers. I’ll like actually toss him the plate in 0g too so it’s spinning.”

Everyone’s groaning by now, but Martinez has a prepared list. “What do you think of that restaurant on Mars? The food had a little bit too much potato, but really it just had no _atmosphere_.”

“Okay, that one is just bad,” Vogel said.

Martinez shrugged. “They are works in progress, okay?”

“I’ll be damned if you get to use even one of those, Martinez,” Beck laughs.

“There’s a few more -” swiping at his tablet. “Why does NASA think there’s life on Mars? Because they saw a _Mark_ in the sand.”

“You know, for a second, I thought you might say something touching when this conversation started,” Lewis said, shaking her head.

—

Melissa Lewis  
Mission Day 689

Lewis vowed to herself she wouldn’t do this, feet padding through the bunk room hallway. She just couldn’t pace around the Hermes anymore, coming up with excuses to walk through the quarters wing several times an hour only to stare at the door to Watney’s room.

She came to Watney’s door, and grabbed the handle, set to green for Enter. She snuck in easily, knowing she wouldn’t be interrupted because everyone else was off doing work _she_ assigned them.

Beck reported that Watney’s sleep was deep and unnaturally still, but that’s not the sight that greeted the commander. She was met with the image of Mark Watney, breath hitching as he turned, pulling and twisting the covers. Every few minutes he would murmur something that Lewis couldn’t make out, hands knotted in the thin fabric. She wasn’t sure if he’d woken up in all these hours.

Lewis knew, from the Missed Orbit Training, that Mark Watney used to sleep the sleep of the dead. He’d go and go and go until he was exhausted, and then he’d fall asleep face first wherever he ended up and be as good as dead. He’d gotten good sleep in some truly weird situations before, curled up between seats of the model rover they trained in.

The sight of his face pulled in pain, frowning even in sleep, tore at her heart.

—

Chris Beck

_“Commander,” Beck’s voice rang out. “Watney’s dead.”_

_“What the fuck, man?” Martinez exclaimed, turning around._

_“We just lost Mark. I don’t want to lose the Commander too.” His voice is ringing, everywhere in his won head._

_Beck swivels his head around to the window and Mark is lying, prone, in the Martian sand, totally alive. “Commander!” He tries to yell, but Lewis is already climbing into the MAV with them. His mouth is open but he can’t get a sound out, oh god oh god he’s right fucking there -_

_He fights the straps as the MAV lifts off but it’s too late, he feels the thrust press him into his seat. As he pull away he can see Mark open his eyes, can see Mark get up, reaching out for them, screaming for them to_ STOP _-_

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 690

He sat up abruptly in bed, gasping.

“Chris?” Johanssen mumbled. “Nightmare?”

He looked down at Johanssen’s sleepy form. “Yeah.”

He’d been getting them on and off since Mark died. When he was just dead, they left his body behind, dead, lying in the sand. But since they found out Mark was alive, Mark’s eyes always watched them leave, Mark was always crying, begging for Beck to stop.

Her sleepy hand reached up to his back, as it always did. “It’s okay, Chris. We got him.” She used to say ‘we’re getting him.’ Now they succeeded, and she could say ‘we got him.’

Beck was struck with the urge to check Mark. He was just across the ship now, not abandoned on a desolate world, and he could go lay eyes on him right this second. He threw off the covers and slipped out of the bunk. He knew Beth would wonder about it, but Beth was half robot, so he didn’t expect there would be any interrogations about it.

He got to his own quarters to find Watney sleeping. Unlike earlier his sleep wasn’t peaceful, and he was turning gently in his sleep. For a moment, Beck stood and watched Watney’s head jerk where he lay every few seconds. His thin and wrinkled hands gripped the covers, then relaxed. After a few more pained seconds, he fell still.

Beck collapsed into the chair by Watney’s bed. Watney’s bones were poking out of his shoulders, his entire skeleton outlined for anyone to see. He was curled on his side, his breath catching, cringing in his sleep. Beck kept giving him IV painkillers, and knew he should be so high that his sleep should be dreamless.

Watney’s condition had been worse than anticipated. Beck didn’t tell Watney this, to keep morale up, but Watney’s body was on the point of complete collapse. He was surprised Watney hadn’t collapsed already. His body weight was dangerously low, and all his nutritional levels were low despite the vitamin supplements. There was only so much artificial vitamins could do, and while they kept full-blown scurvy at bay, Watney’s muscles and organs were beginning to degrade. His pulse was irregular, the beat off-time, his blood pressure wacked out and different every time Beck took it.

Beck doubted this had a solely physical cause. Watney’s body was degrading faster than it should have given his caloric intake, far faster. Beck was not a psychiatrist, but all doctors had to take basic psychiatric medicine at some point. Those psychiatric courses often included the prison treatment reform of the 2020s. The reform was characterized by ending solitary confinement as a form of punishment and restraint. The medical case studies were of victims of solitary confinement, and it was shown that - in addition to a collection of psychiatric conditions - solitary confinement _alone_ could actually cause someone’s physical body to stop functioning properly.

At this moment, though, Beck wasn’t thinking of it in such clinical terms. Beck was looking at Watney’s sallow skin, his disturbed sleep, and felt like it would be better to throw himself out the airlock than to have done this to one of his closest friends. But throwing himself out the airlock wouldn’t help Watney; the only way he could help Watney now was by helping him recover.

So Beck sat in the chair, watched Watney sleep, and wished there were something he could give him to help.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 691

I was really fucking tired. I slept clear through the rest of the day, and the next day, and finally woke up with everyone else today for the 7:00 alarm. I mean slept, like didn’t-wake-up-once the entire time, dead-to-the-world sleep. I did get that tired on Mars, when I exhausted myself to the point of passing out hauling dirt or other stupid shit. I guess being crushed by 12gs is tiring.

The cot in the Hab (which was really two cots piled on top of each other), after a while, was a good bed. I never had any disagreements with it. But after sleeping on an honest-to-god mattress, the Hab bed is certifiably shit. This mattress is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, an unrealistically perfect featherbed. I literally can’t imagine what Earth mattresses feel like.

I even woke up feeling pasty, like I took an ill-advised midday nap, and all my muscles are locked up in response. It’s like I got on the Hermes, my body shouted MISSION ACCOMPLISHED and now I’m fucking falling apart. I’m sore all over, all my muscles are on fire, and I don’t think I could move a single solar panel in the condition I’m in.

So, it’s 7am, just in time for the morning alarm, but I didn’t wake up because of the alarm. I woke up because I could hear everyone else from across the ship. They turned off the alarm in my room, but I’m so used to the silence of Mars that I can hear people making food across the ship now, which is how I know it’s breakfast time. Mars was silent. Mars wasn’t _dead_ silent, it was just silent except for the noises of machines and any noises I made. Nothing unexpected. Unexpected noises could kill me.

Could _have_ , because I’m not on Mars anymore! Now unexpected noises are people. Real people, too, not ‘complicated psychiatric conditions!’

So, my first day of rescue. What am I going to do today?

The crew are going to want to cry over me, probably. We high-fived and hugged for like, a minute, but I fell asleep before anyone could really come talk to me. What should I say to them? ‘Hey, thanks for doubling your trip time and volunteering to die in space to come rescue me.’ There’s nothing I could possibly do to repay them for making it so that I didn’t have to kill myself on Mars.

I’M NOT ON MARS!

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 691

I shut the laptop and crawled out of bed. Shit, my ribs still hurt _bad_ , but I don’t care. Really bad too, like they’re piercing into my sides. I want to see my crewmates. I’ve been alone for 18 months, a little back pain didn’t stop me from hauling all that dirt and it isn’t gonna stop me getting to my crew. A little back pain, a little ribs-are-stabbing-me-on-the-inside pain, a little starvation pain, who’s keeping track?

Beck, Beck is keeping track, I can tell because of how high I still am. Everything is soft and warm and it’s _great_.

Luckily the ship hasn’t gotten all the way to full speed rotation, meaning the gravity isn’t all the way on, so it isn’t hard to get to the rec room. I can just push myself off of the bars in the walls and bounce myself there. I’m going to go see my crewmates, because they rescued me from Mars! I’M NOT ON MARS!

I can feel myself saying it out loud, and I make sure to keep the volume down. “Not on Mars, not on Mars, not on Mars…” I feel giddy, like kids do the night before Christmas.

That’s my first hint. The fact that I actually have to _physically_ contain myself from talking to myself at full volume. Hey, at least that little habit kept my voice usable. That would be kind of hilarious if I was mute-upon-rescue. There would be no end to the amount of shit from Martinez.

I float to the ladder and slide down, and god fucking damnit do these broken ribs hurt. This is annoying.

Aha, they were all there. They’re even sitting at the rec room table, in a semi-organized fashion, like they’re doing something productive, having already finished breakfast. Probably waiting on me. Or talking about me. I don’t care.

“I’m not on Mars!” I yell, and dryness rips through my throat. As I double over coughing, it occurs to me that one can’t drink water while asleep, and I’ve been asleep for days. At least I never lacked for water on Mars, only my potatoes did. Johanssen immediately gets up to get a packet of water (because it would float right out of a glass in 0g) and I suck it down greedily.

Okay, clear my throat again. Drink some more water. Try again.

“I’M NOT ON MARS!” There, I really got some volume now, the noise echoing slightly off of the thick composite walls.

Their faces break out into smiles, damn right they do, and then they start cheering. I join them, fist pumping just like when I got to the MAV, and of course my biceps are already sore. They’re getting up from the table now, excited by how excited I am, and I’m glad they are. This is the time for hugs and cheering.

I haven’t touched another human in 18 months, and Johanssen is the one standing nearest me, so I envelop her in a hug, blowing past the uncomfortable tearing sensation in my chest.

“Johanssen, you’re so warm,” I say, burying my head in her shoulder that is four inches below me. She seems very tall. Am I shorter? I think I’m just smaller. I notice how muscle-bound she is, and I remember that it’s not her that’s muscle-bound, but me that is all skin and bones.

Only now, on the Hermes, in contrast to everyone else, do I notice just how skeletal I am. I saw myself in the mirror on Mars and in Beck’s quarters, but now I _really_ see it. I feel how her shoulder blades don’t stick out like mine, how you can’t feel her spine all the way down her back, how her hips don’t jut out of her sides. My fingers feel the thick muscles on her body. The observation puts ice in my gut.

She happily returns the contact, the warmth from her body reaching my bones. Honestly, I want a group hug. If she’s warm they’ve gotta be warm too. God, I’ve been so alone, I don’t want to be alone anymore. “Guys, come on, group hug time.”

Lewis acted like she was waiting for permission because she nearly rushes at me, and fuck she’s warm too. Beck, Martinez and even Vogel are a part of the party, and I find myself in the middle of an Ares III huddle. It’s warm, but not like RTG warm, more like ‘I’m not alone on a planet anymore’ warm.

“Oh fuck, I was alone on that planet for so long,” my mouth says on behalf of my brain, in that slightly desperate tone I’ve been trying to ignore for years. I’ve been talking that way for years. Another ice cube falls into my stomach.

How many things did I ignore because I had to?

“You’re not alone anymore,” came Lewis’s muffled voice from somewhere. Wow, cliche, like a teen movie, but I wasn’t going to argue because the words made my chest feel impossibly warm.

Christ, here come the waterworks again. “Jesus Fuck,” I say. It’s only because I’ve been through so much shit with these guys that I wasn’t ashamed to start crying, right in the middle of that group hug. Really, though, I don’t think I could have stopped myself if I wanted to.

But of course, they felt my chest jerk and immediately gave me space, and I didn’t want that yet so my hand grabbed at someone as they all broke apart. The arm I ended up grabbing belonged to Martinez. I think it’s probably awkward as hell, but, it happened, I’m not going back on it.

Martinez looked at me in the eye, and put his hand on my shoulder comfortingly.

I’m not particularly emotionally backwards, as far as men go, but I always preferred a joke and reassurances to touchy-feely-look-me-in-the-eyes comfort. I’m glad Martinez has been married since college, so he knows how to talk to provide touchy feely comfort when the situation calls for it.

Although, I’m getting the feeling that Mars changed that about me. For the first time since high school, I find myself wanting look-me-in-the-eyes comfort.

It’s been so long since another human has _looked_ at me, so of course my chest jerks again as soon as his eyes connect. I bring my hands up to cover my face, which is getting gross again really fast. “Sorry, sorry, I just haven’t -”

“We know, Watney,” was Martinez’s amused and slightly exasperated reply, gripping me back tightly.

“We rescued you,” Johanssen said again, a soft smile on her face. “You’re safe with us.”

My chest jerks again. “Johanssen, stop it.” Every word she says, the tone she uses, makes me want to sob for ten years. Looking at her soft smile melted my heart.

Instead of crying more, though, I wiped my face off with my shirt (because I’m childish that way) and sat down.

They all looked at me and sat down too, clearly letting me lead this interaction. But now that my body had that little emotional upheaval, it’s making it’s will known to me, painfully. “Shit, I’m hungry,” I began to say, but the words weren’t out of my mouth before Beck was making something. “Beck, you’re my hero.”

Beck puffs up, and says “I am the one who tethered you in, after all,” in a false self-important voice.

“But really, guys,” I supply. “You’re all-”

“We know, we know” Johanssen said, again, smiling.

They’re all sitting around the table, warm eyes looking at me, everyone is looking right at me and is here with me, smiling at me, and there’s something hot and warm in my chest that I can’t quite get a hold of. I can feel my throat making that tearing feeling, too many emotions jammed in my body all at once.

But then I notice Lewis’s face, the way it’s strained, the way something about her seems held back. Lewis is a good commander, and I’ll bet you any money she’s blamed herself this whole time. And I look like a pretty sorry sack of shit, so she’s probably feeling even more guilty just looking at me. _I’m_ the victim here, I’m not supposed to be handling their emotional baggage.

I wave my hand in her face. “Stop that,” I say, waving it indistinctly. “You’re ruining my moment.”

Lewis just raised her eyebrow, pressing her lips together thinly. Is she trying not to cry? I’ve never seen the commander cry.

I wave indistinctly again in her direction, with more energy. “Feeling guilty. Stop feeling guilty for the state I’m in, it’s not your fault,” I say.

The moment I made first contact, I always led with ‘don’t blame the crew.’ I wrote them letters that said ‘don’t blame yourselves.’ I wrote a general message to the ship that says ‘don’t blame yourselves.’ I would have written it in Morse fucking Code, and they still don’t get it.

I turned my head to look at everyone else. “That goes for all of you. Don’t feel guilty. You did nothing wrong, you were following protocol, and by all rights I was dead. It was perfectly reasonable to think I was dead.” A pause. “And also, I’m selfish, remember? I don’t want to deal with your guilt.”

That last sentence got half a laugh from them, so I felt confident I’d made my point.

It didn’t matter if I actually did because the food was put under my nose, and I made it my job to get it in my stomach as fast as possible. I had to eat bland food with tiny bites or I’d get sick, but I was going to eat those tiny bites as fast as I humanly could.

I only used a utensil out of habit, and as I was inhaling food it occurred to me it might be easier to tip the plate toward my face. I actually consider doing that for a second, but then I remember there are people around to see. People! I’m not alone!

“Mark?” Lewis asked, slightly concerned. Oh, right, I’m just laughing to myself without explaining.

“I turned into a bit of a caveman while I was away,” I laugh. “I just considered tipping the plate into my mouth, but then I remembered I can’t do that where people can see. And then I realized that people are here! I’m not alone!” I say, looking up at her.

They all looked upset for a moment, before smiling uncertainly. Another accidentally heavy statement from Mark Watney. Points for effort, I guess.

I can practically hear the cooing in their thoughts. _He’s been alone for so long._

And then I remembered I’ve been alone for so fucking long. _So alone_.

At the word ‘alone,’ the empty MAV landing struts flash in my mind, lightning fast and barely there. The emptiness seeps into my chest like poison.

“Don’t - don’t do that,” I mumble. “Don’t look all… traumatized, or whatever. It’s okay.”

“Are we supposed to not be bothered?” Lewis asked, almost defensively. She was the voice of the team, I could hear it.

The team, not including me. A wall slams down, suddenly I’m not a part of this crew anymore, and I feel the emptiness crackle through my chest like flash frozen ice.

“No, but…” I sighed. “I want to be able to say whatever I want to say, but I can’t if anything I might say might make you guys… It’s bad, yeah, but it is what it is, so just…” I trailed off, gesturing. I’m not sure how to articulate what I’m asking. What is it I’m asking? For them to just not make a big deal of it, I guess.

They all furrowed their brows and said nothing, so I figured ‘fuck it’ and got back to my meal. But they all kept staring at me, even as I continued to eat.

Given that I’m wearing Johanssen’s clothes and they’re _loose_ , shoveling food into my mouth with all the manners of a dog, it didn’t take a genius to figure out why.

“Guys, guys,” I joked. “I know I’m attractive, no need to stare.”

“I’ve just never seen someone eat that fast,” Vogel said. That was his humor - sardonic.

I nod, thanking him for the normalcy.

He nods back. Weird German guy always has your back.

Martinez was quick with a joke. “Yeah Watney, you’re not gonna be underweight anymore if you keep that up.” Trust Martinez to mock the starving guy. He must think he’s hilarious. Privately, I do too.

“You’re one to talk, Martinez,” I said through my food, mouth open and everything. It was very mature of me.

Martinez raised his eyebrows, grinning.

“But really, I’ve been on 3/4 rations for… like, the whole time I was gone It’s not like it was 1/2, but…” stop to inhale more food. “I didn’t feel any more hungry than usual until Beck gave me a full meal, and now it’s like my body remembered I’m starving.”

After a minute, I look up and see all their aghast faces, _again_. What - oh yeah, living on 3/4 rations is considered a Bad Thing. But I’m on the Hermes now. There’s enough food here.

_The part of my ration that I can’t eat is staring at me, I can’t look away. My stomach is shredding my insides, and I feel like the last meal I ate must have been a meal of knives. I’m not doing any manual labor today, so I limit myself to a half-ration._

_“It’s okay,” I tell myself, forcing myself to cover it with a bowl and putting it back in the fridge. “It’s okay,” I say, looking down at the food I do have. “You have plenty of food. Watney, you’re lucky you even get to eat.” My insides feel shredded, decimated. “Look, you get to eat and lay around and watch tv. You don’t have to lift jack shit, you can just lay down and put a pillow under your back and watch Dukes of Hazzard.” My voice is shaky but I don’t notice._

_Walking away from the fridge is physically painful, the blackness in my chest growing and growing._

The memory slams into me out of nowhere. The emptiness exploded in my chest but I’m able to breathe through my nose and divert the shaking in my chest to a deep, shaky breath. I must be doing an okay job hiding what happened, because no one seemed to notice anything changed. Or maybe they’re just politely ignoring it.

Martinez is still talking. “I can tell you’re starving, dude, because you’re eating this shitty rehydrated food like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

“Dude, it is.” I meant for the words to come out conversational, but they must have come out heavy, because even Martinez looked like someone killed his puppy.

“I’m just doing a fucking terrible job at this,” is my prompt follow-up. “Guess I’ve been away a while.”

Lewis shakes her head. I can’t read her emotions. “No, we’re the ones who are supposed to be understanding.”

“But how can you understand?” I respond plaintively.

In an instant, Lewis looked like she’d been struck. Oh shit, she thought that was some sort of snippy comeback.

“Shit! sorry, I didn’t mean it like…” is my hastily mumbled response. I just meant it like ‘I get why you guys are being weird, because you have no context, it’s okay.’ I put my head in my hands, and make an obnoxious, groaning noise for effect.

How do people even talk to each other? I’ve only been gone a year and a half, not three decades, I shouldn’t have the social skills of a mountain hermit.

That seems to relieve her sense of hurt, as her gaze softens and she smiles at me. Her hurt visibly, instantly morphs back to guilt.

I’m dozens of pounds underweight, haggard, inhaling reconstituted food, talking blithely about that time they abandoned me on a desolate, lifeless planet to die.

Okay Watney, pull it together.

I’m trying to think - how would I have reacted to someone else in my position two years ago? I honestly don’t know. I haven’t really been around bad things. I’ve had family members pass away, but that’s natural. When your grandparents die you’re bereft, but ultimately you knew it was going to happen. I moved on. I’ve never been around people who were legitimately damaged. _I_ don’t even know how to handle myself - how can I ask them to know?

I put the fork down, and mumble in the table’s direction. “I know I’ve been gone a while, and things are going to be different now. Just please remember, I don’t blame you. It isn’t your fault. It isn’t personal.” Lewis looked at me with her sparkling blue eyes, and nodded gently. Everyone else did the same after a beat. The way things are going, they’re going to need to keep that in mind.

“’Sides,” I say. “I’m finally back. I’m Mark Watney, juinormost member of Ares III, I’m a dick who makes everything into a joke, and I’m back.” I don’t really know how to smile, but I think the moment calls for it, so I grin and crinkle my eyes to add realism. “Can I just be that guy again?”

Lewis sighs and dips her head, nodding. “Of course, Mark, you’re right.”

“If Lewis tries to take anything personally I’ll make fun of her for it,” Martinez assured me, nodding solemnly.

Great. I can go back to inhaling my food now. “The only reason you like that shit is because it’s not potatoes,” Martinez says, trying heroically to get everything back to normal. I admire his determination.

“Don’t knock my potatoes,” I said, feeling the weight of the food settle in my stomach. “Yeah, I’m never eating potatoes again, but there was only good bacteria on mars, and they were completely organic and GMO. I gave each plant individual care. They were the best baked potatoes anyone’s ever had.”

“I can’t imagine,” he says, laughing, “Only eating baked fucking potatoes for a solid year.”

“I mashed them once or twice,” I said conversationally, “But it took a lot of effort and I didn’t really have any clean utensils, so I stopped doing that.”

“How did you wash things?” Beck asked curiously.

“I made 600L of water. I had plenty of water to wash stuff; just had to dump it back into the reclaimer after. But with all the dirt on the floor, things never stayed clean long.”

“How did you make 600L of water?” Vogel asked, eyes blown. He’s the chemist, after all.

“You’ll like this, Vogel,” I am out and out laughing now. “I lit the hydrazine from the MDV on fire. Turns it right to water.”

They aren’t laughing. They are staring at me. They don’t seem to think it’s funny.

My laughing dies down awkwardly when their expressions don’t change. Their eyes are round, actually, like I just told them something disastrous.

I needed water; that’s how you get water. What was I supposed to do?

Their shocked faces kept staring at me, mouths dropping open. I kept staring at them, trying to see what it is they were seeing.

Suddenly, I saw. Suddenly, off of Mars, Mars was much more terrifying. Setting hydrazine on fire can blow you up so fast you won’t even know you died. I remembered my training, my fear of hydrazine, my deadly fear of fire on the Hermes. I remembered the fear of everything exploding, everyone dying by explosion. The way we trained and trained and trained _and trained_ to avoid fire. NASA’s safety rules and guidelines weren’t them being fucking annoying nannies; they were designed to keep us alive.

If you ask NASA what the worst case scenario is, they say “fire.” If you ask them what happens, they’d answer “death by fire.”

But I knew the risks, didn’t I? I knew what I was doing when I lit rocket fuel on fire. I knew I would probably die by fire. It didn’t matter. One, had I not done it, I would have starved to death before anyone could rescue me. Two… I didn’t care if I died.

A different sort of cavern opened up in my chest, seemingly out of nowhere, consuming me. My chest physically hurt as if elephants have been rampaging across my sternum.

No, it’s not out of nowhere, it’s the cavern that’s been there since Sol 6. But I’m rescued. I’m on the Hermes. Why the fuck was it here?

“Mark?” Lewis tried, and I was yanked back into the present. They were still all staring at me, in varying states of horror. I shored up my emotional reserves and tried to explain myself.

“Look, I had to do a lot of stupid shit to survive,” I said quietly. “I’m laughing about it now because I lived. If I didn’t get that water, I was going to starve to death. I couldn’t delay it, either; I had to start growing the potatoes _immediately_ , in order to have time for them to grow. I needed that water right then. Yeah, I could have exploded, but it was _maybe_ explode now versus _definitely_ starve to death later.” I neglected to mention that I really didn’t care if it went wrong.

Ok, there’s those dreadful facial expressions again. That means what I said was Bad. All right, official goals: 1) Rebuild the brain-mouth filter. 2) Stop saying Bad Things like it’s no big deal because it makes them upset.

“We know, Watney, just…” Lewis rubbed her face like she was a million years old. “We worried a lot about you.”

I quirk a half-smile. “Well you don’t need to worry anymore, because I _could_ have died from all the stupid stuff I did, but I didn’t.” I’m pointing at them for the joke.

 _Yeah, fuck you Mars. You didn’t kill me, I win._ A grin split my face as I finished the last of my food. Okay, I’m going to say that out loud. “Yeah fuck you Mars, I win.”

“You are the King of Mars,” Beck quipped with half a grin.

The very concept makes me shiver. “Not anymore. I don’t want anything to do with that god forsaken hellscape anymore.”

“No can do, _pal_ ,” Martinez shook his head. “You’re gonna be the guy that survived 549 Sols for the rest of your life, and people are gonna be asking about Mars until the day you die.”

I’m finally out of food, and my stomach is so full that I can physically feel it stretching. I’m also exhausted. I could feel myself sinking down at the table, ready to put my face in my arms. “I’ll tell them fuck Mars, I beat Mars.”

“He needs to be put down for a nap,” Beck laughed. “Get up, Watney, go to bed,” he said, shoving my shoulder. The moment his hand landed, I wished he wouldn’t lift it.

New Mark Watney Personality Trait: Touchy-feely.

I don’t want to get up, I want to sit here with my head in my hands and listen to them talk. But Beck pushes me gently until I get up, so I get on my stabby feeling ribs as Beck floats with me to my quarters.

“Do you need anything?” was Beck’s question from behind me.

“Are you putting me to bed?” My voice is mocking, and I’m glad I can still pull that off.

“Yes, because I’m a doctor, and you’re my patient who broke two ribs in a 12g convertible launch, damaged their back and legs from almost constant physical activity and cramped living conditions, and has been a victim of starvation for a year and a half. I am personally putting you to bed.”

I briefly entertained the notion of demanding independence, but decided against it. If Beck kept checking up on me, I’d have company (a huge plus) and I’d have Beck stepping and fetching shit for me (another huge plus).

Beck was still talking. “In fact, I’m inclined to put you on forced bedrest for a few days to heal.”

I shrugged. “That’s fine, honestly, as long as you losers come visit me in here.”

Beck rolled his eyes. “Let me be right back, I’m going to go grab you some meds,” he said, and he shut the door.

The moment I was alone in the room with the shut door, my body went rigid. I felt my muscles thrumming, felt time slow down, and it took me by surprise. This is what happened when something _bad_ was about to happen.

Had I noticed something wrong? Was something bad about to happen?

Fuck, _no_ , I’m on the Hermes, not _Mars, please don’t let anything bad happen._

I stood there on high alert, straining my ears.

Nothing happened.

Beck was back as soon as he left, and when he opened the door it startled the shit out of me. I jerked backwards, so much so that I almost fell over.

“Watney!” Beck exclaimed. “You all right?”

As soon as I adjusted to the fact that he was back in the room, my stress level dropped significantly and I didn’t think twice about it.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, collapsing onto the bed. “Gimme the drugs.”

He did, and I downed them greedily, and fell back on the bed. I would have liked to stay awake longer and look at all the photos I put on my wall, but I fell asleep before I even knew it happened.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 691

**Earlier That Day**

“All right,” Beck said. “NASA has compiled a report on the possible physical and psychological effects of his time on Mars. They want me to talk you guys through how we should treat him on the ship, as in how we should behave around him. Although, I gotta say,” he said, swiping on the tablet, “It isn’t a very helpful report.”

“So like every NASA report?” Martinez asked.

“No, this one is worse. I think they just googled ‘solitary confinement,’ and included every bad thing that’s ever happened to someone from isolation. In addition to the usual anxiety, depression, PTSD, mood dysregulation, personality changes, dissociation -”

“These are the usual things?” Johanssen cut in.

“-They included inability to sleep, as in _at all,_ complex hallucinations _,_ specific hallucinations ‘such as dancing apples,’ inability to speak, loss of object permanence - the inability to remember that things he can’t see still exist - loss of object permanence with respect to _people_ is a big concern of theirs -”

“So he might just forget we’re all on this ship with him if he can’t see us?” Lewis said.

Beck nods. “Yes. Uh, they’ve also listed anorexia, bulimia, various other behavioral problems, and a high probability of never successfully reintegrating with the human population at large.”

Everyone pauses for a moment, swallowing.

“It’s really not gonna be that bad,” Beck says, trying to be reassuring. “This is everything that could happen. I highly doubt all of these things _will_ happen.”

“Beck, you’re the only one whose really talked to him,” Lewis says. “What do you think is the likelihood of any of these things?”

Beck raises his eyebrows. “Uh, well, he seems to remember that we all exist when we’re not _around_ , which is good -”

Suddenly Watney thrusts himself into the rec room, and everyone’s mouths snap shut.

He’s in a sorry state. He’s wearing the sweat clothes that belong to Johanssen, and everyone notices how they hang off of his skeletal frame, draping where his shoulders poke through his shirt. His skin is unevenly colored, red blotches visible on his face and hands, bruses on his arms, dirt embedded under his fingernails. His skin was wrinkled and leathery on his face, tan from solar radiation. His hair is cut in a somewhat organized fashion, but they can tell he did it himself with an electric razor and one mirror, and his bedhead makes it look like a mess. He’s lost a ton of muscle, and bears more resemblance to a starving child in a Sarah McLaughlin commercial then he does to an astronaut. They can see the strain in his movements, too, flinching visibly whenever he has to push off of a surface, panting hard with the exertion of making it to the rec room.

Mark Watney used to have bright eyes. Bright, blue, full of laughter, probably mocking someone nearby, always ready to give someone a hug. The most cheerful person in any room.

The Mark Watney that stood in front of them had the same hopeful eyes, but there was years and years of suffering that weren’t there before. There was a heaviness in his gaze that floored them all. His eyes were sunken, _exhausted,_ open just a little too wide for comfort. His gaze flicked around in an agitated fashion. He looked torn.

He didn’t seem to notice any of this, though, as he righted himself in the low gravity. He charged in, completely unaware of the situation, intent on saying whatever it is he was gonna say. That, at least, was the same Mark Watney they’d always known

“I’m not on Mars!” He yells, but immediately doubles over hacking and coughing. The sight of his thin frame bent over is unsettling. Johanssen rushes to get him a packet of water, and he stands there for a moment sucking it up like a child with a juicebox.

But after some water and throat clearing, he yells again. “I’M NOT ON MARS!”

He yells loud enough that it hurts their ear drums, but the crew starts smiling. Watney, skeletal, malnourished and closer to death than life, is standing tall in front of them with a shit-eating grin on his face, and they’re so damn proud of him that all they can do is cheer along with him.

He begins to fist pump, looking around to an imaginary crowd of onlookers, and the crew is laughing and standing up to greet him. After his fist pumping, his eyes land on Johanssen, and he immediately pulls her into a crushing hug.

“Johanssen, you’re so warm,” he mumbles, snuggling with Johanssen, who unabashedly snuggles right back. The entire crew is aware of how tightly he is hugging her, aware that Watney is burying _his_ face in _her_ shoulder even though she’s the shorter one, watching Johanssen bring her hand up to Watney’s hair.

“Guys, come on, group hug time,” Watney mumbles in her shoulder. Lewis rushes at the both of them, taller than either, then Beck and Martinez and Vogel join on all sides.

For a perfect moment, the six of them just stand there, together again.

“Oh fuck, I was alone on that planet for so long,” Comes Watney’s voice from somewhere in the middle of the hug.

“You’re not alone anymore,” came Lewis’s choked voice from above, tallest of them all.

Watney’s voice comes from the middle of the hug again. “Jesus fuck,” he pants.

But from the middle of the group hug they felt Watney’s chest jerk, and instinctively break apart to give him space. As soon as it’s happening, they think that might not have been the right thing to do, just as Watney’s hand chases Martinez’s and grabs on.

Martinez, the most fifteen year old person to ever live, just looks him in the eye and puts his hand on Watney’s shoulder.

In response, Watney instantly slams his eyes shut, brings his hands up to cover his face, hiding tears. “Sorry, sorry, I just haven’t -” he starts thickly.

“We know, Watney,” was Martinez’s amused and slightly exasperated reply, gripping him back.

“We rescued you,” Johanssen said again, a soft smile on her face. “You’re safe with us.”

“Johanssen, stop it,” is Watney’s thick and joking reply as he collapses into his seat. Everyone else follows suit, sitting around the rec table.

Everyone always sits in the same seat at the rec table. Lewis, with Beck on one side and Watney on the other, Watney next to Martinez, next to Vogel, next to Johanssen, next to Beck.

The second Watney collapses into his seat, something in the world is put right again. They’ve been staring at that empty seat for far too long.

Watney looks around for a moment distractedly, just taking in the sight of the Hermes. The rest of the crew just looks at him, waiting.

“Shit, I’m hungry,” was what he says after a moment, but Beck’s already on his feet making him food. “Beck, you’re my hero,” he says, sighting the food.

Beck puffs up, and says “I am the one who tethered you in, after all,” with false self-importance.

“But really, guys,” He says, looking up. “You’re all-”

“We know, we know” Johanssen said, again, smiling.

Watney looks around the table again for a moment distantly. Just as the crew wonders what he’s thinking, he waves his hand in Lewis’s face “Stop that. You’re ruining my moment.”

They’d all been ignoring the stiff way she’d been sitting. Lewis just raised her eyebrow, pressing her lips together thinly, pretending she didn’t know what he was talking about.

He waves his arm again. “Feeling guilty. Stop feeling guilty for the state I’m in, it’s not your fault. That goes for all of you. Don’t feel guilty. You did nothing wrong, you were following protocol, and by all rights I was dead. It was perfectly reasonable to think I was dead.” A pause. “And also, I’m selfish, remember? I don’t want to deal with your guilt.”

That last sentence got half a laugh from everyone at the table.

But as soon as the food was under Watney’s nose, he stopped talking to everyone else in favor of shoving it in his face as fast as possible. Although, it wasn’t too fast, considering Watney was taking tiny bites and using extra care to chew each one thoroughly. He looked like he was having trouble with the utensil, as if he hadn’t used one in a while.

Watney’s laughing to himself while he’s eating. They wait on him to provide an explanation, but he doesn’t.

“Mark?”

Watney looked up and they could swear he looked startled before his eyes focused on them. “I turned into a bit of a caveman while I was away. I just considered tipping the plate into my mouth, but then I remembered I can’t do that where people can see. And then I realized that people are here! I’m not alone!” His voice sounded a bit disconnected, artificially cheerful.

By the time anyone can respond, he’s returned to staring at his food lovingly. No one knew quite how to react, and settled for smiling uncertainly.

Watney’s eating slows down, and he looks up at the group. “Don’t - don’t do that,” He mumbles. “Don’t look all… traumatized, or whatever. It’s okay.”

What the fuck kind of request is that? “Are we supposed to not be bothered?” Lewis asked defensively.

“No, but…” He looks down at the table. “I want to be able to say whatever I want to say, but I can’t if anything I might say might make you guys…” he waves his hand, as if to say ‘make you guys like this.’ “It’s bad, yeah, but it is what it is, so just…”

Just what? Don’t react? Nobody knows what to say, and everyone just looks at Watney blankly.

He goes back to shoveling food into his mouth at the speed of light, and no one has the heart to talk to him, which would make him stop eating.

“Guys, guys,” He jokes, in between bites. “I know I’m attractive, no need to stare.”

Martinez immediately snorts.

“I’ve just never seen someone eat that fast,” Vogel says lightly.

“Yeah Watney, you’re not gonna be underweight anymore if you keep that up,” was Martinez’s sensitive comment.

“You’re one to talk, Martinez,” Watney says, mouth full of food. Johanssen groans, and puts a hand between her and Watney. Martinez raised his eyebrows, grinning.

“But really,” Watney says, mouth still fill “I’ve been on 3/4 rations for… like, the whole time I was gone It’s not like it was 1/2, but…” stop to inhale more food. “I didn’t feel any more hungry than usual until Beck gave me a full meal, and now it’s like my body remembered I’m starving,” cocking half a smile.

 _Ha ha. I remembered I’m literally starving to death_. The cavalier attitude with which he said that bothered everyone more than they’d like to admit.

Watney takes an awkward pause from his food, breathing deeply through his nose, eyes unfocused. Probably gathering steam to dive back into his food.

“I can tell you’re starving, dude, because you’re eating this shitty rehydrated food like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to you,” is Martinez’s chosen response.

Watney’s not resumed eating yet, still staring at his food oddly. “Dude, it is.”

For a third time, the crew just doesn’t know what to say in response.

He takes another bite, but then looks up at the crew. He puts down the fork, and sighs. “I’m just doing a fucking terrible job at this. Guess I’ve been away a while.”

Lewis laughs. “No, we’re the ones who are supposed to be understanding.”

“But how can you understand?” His eyes are looking at us, plain. He didn’t mean it as an insult, he just meant it as a question, and everyone at the table knows, but the reality of it slams into them like a train. How can we possibly understand what he’s gone through?

“Shit! sorry, I didn’t mean it like…” is his hasty apology. He puts his head in his hands, groaning dramatically.

After a moment, he says “I know I’ve been gone a while, and things are going to be different now. Just please remember, I don’t blame you. It isn’t your fault. It isn’t personal. ’Sides, I’m finally back. I’m Mark Watney, juinormost member of Ares III, I’m a dick who makes everything into a joke, and I’m back. Can I just be that guy again?”

He’s grinning, eyes crinkling, but the smile looks weary and tired. “Of course, Mark, you’re right,” Lewis says.

“If Lewis tries to take anything personally I’ll make fun of her for it,” Martinez assures Watney, nodding solemnly.

Watney seems to find this adequate, because he goes back to inhaling his food. It’s a bit of a spectacle, really, the gusto with which he eats.

“The only reason you like that shit is because it’s not potatoes,” Martinez says, working hard to get everything back to normal.

“Don’t knock my potatoes. Yeah, I’m never eating potatoes again, but there was only good bacteria on mars, and they were completely organic and GMO. I gave each plant individual care. They were the best baked potatoes anyone’s ever had.”

“I can’t imagine only eating baked fucking potatoes for a solid year.”

“I mashed them once or twice, but it took a lot of effort and I didn’t really have any clean utensils, so I stopped doing that.”

“How did you wash things?” Beck asked curiously.

Watney shrugs. “I made 600L of water. I had plenty of water to wash stuff; just had to dump it back into the reclaimer after. But with all the dirt on the floor, things never stayed clean long.”

“How did you make 600L of water?” Vogel asked, eyes blown. He’s the chemist, after all.

Watney starts laughing. “You’ll like this, Vogel. I lit the hydrazine from the MDV on fire.” He snaps, for added effect. “Turns it right to water.”

Everyone feels like they’ve been drenched in ice, but he’s still laughing like it’s a funny joke.

He lit the hydrazine on fire. First, he took the hydrazine _into_ the Hab, his only safe haven. He looked for something _flammable_ in the Hab. He created an open spark with electrical equipment, _in the Hab_. And then he used it to light _rocket fuel on fire, in the Hab._

The worst part of all of this is that Watney thinks this is hilarious, still laughing to himself like it’s just a funny story.

His laughing dies down n the face of their silence. For a moment he narrowed his eyes at them, eyebrows raised, confused.

But after a moment, he looks down. He doesn’t look confused anymore, he looks ashamed, he’s looking at his food but he’s staring past it. Nobody is saying anything, and they’re beginning to feel guilty for their reactions making him feel this way. What else was he supposed to do?

“Mark?” Lewis tried.

Watney jerks, looks up at them, and starts mumbling.

“Look, I had to do a lot of stupid shit to survive,” he’s murmuring. “I’m laughing about it now because I lived. If I didn’t get that water, I was going to starve to death. I couldn’t delay it, either; I had to start growing the potatoes immediately, in order to have time for them to grow. I needed that water right then. Yeah, I could have exploded, but it was _maybe_ explode now versus _definitely_ starve to death later.”

He’s looking around the table at everyone in turn, with an expression somewhere between defiance and pleading, eyebrows drawn together but eyes searching for something.

“We know, Watney, just…” Lewis rubbed her face like she was a million years old. “We worried a lot about you.”

He quirks a grin. “Well you don’t need to worry anymore, because I _could_ have died from all the stupid stuff I did, but I didn’t.” He grins, widely. “Fuck you Mars, I win.”

“You are the King of Mars,” Beck quipped with half a grin.

Watney physically shivers. “Not anymore. I don’t want anything to do with that god forsaken hellscape anymore.”

“No can do, _pal_ ,” Martinez shook his head. “You’re gonna be the guy that survived 549 Sols for the rest of your life, and people are gonna be asking about Mars until the day you die.”

Watney’s out of food and slumps down at the table, into his arms. “I’ll tell them fuck Mars, I beat Mars.”

“He needs to be put down for a nap,” Beck laughed. “Get up, Watney, go to bed,” he said, shoving Watney’s shoulder. “Do you need anything?”

“Are you putting me to bed?” Watney’s voice is a cross between joking and whining.

“Yes, because I’m a doctor, and you’re my patient who broke two ribs in a 12g convertible launch…” they continue talking as they both bounce out of the rec room.

In their wake, everyone looks at each other awkwardly. No one knows what to say.

“Am I the only one who noticed how often he spaced out?” Martinez ventures. “Not once, but _twice_ he spaced out so hard that he jerked when we said his name.”

“NASA did warn us,” Lewis said, shrugging.

Martinez shook his head. “It’s weird to see in person.”

“Also, he would look no one in the eye,” Vogel observed. “I wonder what NASA will make of this.”

It was at this moment that Beck returned to the room. “I put him to bed,” he offered. “He’s probably going to be asleep three more days.”

“Did you see the way he kept just… spacing out?” Martinez asked Beck. “Every other sentence, it’s like he forgot we were here. Staring at the wall.”

Beck spread his arms out. “NASA warned us.”

“Lewis said,” Martinez rolled his eyes.

“Based on that interaction, can you reassess what you think Watney’s situation is?” Lewis said. “You were just telling us you have no idea.”

Beck sighs for a moment. “Well, he carried on a cogent conversation, cracked jokes, picked up on social cues, so that’s all promising. He doesn’t seem to have a sense for his own pain, but he’s probably just in the habit of ignoring it…” Beck picks up his tablet again, swiping. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Any suspicions I have now are covered under doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“We all released that when we went on this mission,” Lewis said.

Beck shrugged. “If I think you need to know, I’ll tell you. For now, I’m going to keep my suspicions private, out of respect for his privacy.”

Lewis frowned, but nodded.

“Okay, NASA’s recommendations for his care. Physiological is my department, but behavioral will need all of your help. Basically, NASA thinks normalcy and routine will help minimize the after-effects of Mars.”

“In other words, he’s been on his own too long, make a routine and stick to it with him,” Lewis agreed. “That’s what I was thinking. We already have a routine, so we just have to make sure we _actually stick to it_.”

Lewis turned her piercing eye around the table. In the last hundred days, they had gotten less than rigorous about sticking to the NASA schedule, because they were anxious about Watney’s rescue and almost ten light-minutes away from Earth. NASA had no power to make them stick to any routine.

“Yes Commander,” Johanssen said guiltily. It was, of course, her and Beck who were doing the worst job sticking to the curfew.

“I know you two like spending time in the rec room after-hours -” Lewis began,

“But you have to keep your canoodling to yourselves now, do you hear?” Martinez laughed. “In other words, _get a room_.”

“We have a room, a tiny room with a twin bed and about ten square feet of walking space,” Johanssen said.

Martinez waggled his eyebrows. “I’m sure you two will find a way.”

“We’re not -” Beck said in a stilted voice. “It’s -” He tried again. “This ship isn’t soundproof, and besides, we wouldn’t…”

Lewis frowned, not wanting to appear as if she approved of the line of joking, but privately enjoying Beck’s struggle.

“This true?” Martinez asked Johanssen.

She shrugged. “For the most part.”

Vogel shook his head. “For the most part,” he repeated in his thick accent.

“ _Anyways_ ,” Beck said loudly, “The _geniuses_ at NASA also said that Watney will probably be lonely and wanting contact with other humans, so pending Watney’s feelings on the matter, we should spend time with him and, basically, touch him a lot. We all saw the way he hung on to Martinez.”

“Oh, the wisdom of NASA,” Martinez shook his head. “Telling us shit we already know.”

Commander Lewis privately agreed.

“Oh, and one more thing,” Beck said. “NASA included a bunch of warning symptoms we should all be on the lookout for. If you see any of the following, let me know within 24 hours: extreme mood swings, failure to get his attention after yelling his name in his face, inability to wake him up, insomnia, uh…” more swiping. “If you observe any of the following, let me know immediately: talking or yelling at things that aren’t there, failure to acknowledge things that _are_ there.”

“Is there a reason we need to tell you if we think he’s not sleeping? Can’t he do that himself?” Martinez asked.

Beck frowned at him. “NASA is worried he’s going to hide things from us, or lie about it to us.”

“I feel like they’re convicting him before he’s even done anything,” Johanssen said. “I know, ‘be prepared for every eventuality,’ but I just can’t believe Mark Watney would lie to us.”

“People are more willing to lie about things that they think they shouldn’t have to talk about,” Lewis said. “We’re not supposed to lie on the ship, but if someone asked me what losing my virginity was like, I would hardly be inclined to give a helpful answer. Watney may consider his mental health under that category.”

“We already know what you losing your virginity was like,” Martinez said unhelpfully. “We’ve gossiped about everything on this ship.”

Lewis rolls her eyes. “You know what I’m trying to say.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 692

I was yanked into consciousness by a loud banging on my door, and it woke me up as suddenly as it were gunfire. Jesus Christ my heart is pounding as hard as… well, as it was pretty much the whole time I was on Mars.

The door opened to reveal Lewis, and I sat up, pulling myself together.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

What kind of question is that? I was sleeping!

She was standing next to a photo of my parents, and the words left my mouth very suddenly. “I want to talk to my parents.”

Now that I was awake, and mostly functional, and I’d talked to the crew, I needed to talk to my mom and dad. I’d been emailing them, but now I could have something resembling a real time conversation. I need my mom and dad.

Lewis smiled, as if she’d been expecting that. “I’ve been waiting for you to ask; I’ll set up a time tomorrow.”

She made to leave, so I said “Wait, that’s it?” You came just to hear me demand to talk to my mommy and daddy?

She cocked her head. “Well if you want to actually talk to your parents, I need to let NASA know ASAP.”

That made sense, I supposed, as she closed the door again. They need to be flown to Houston to get the quickest communication, and I suppose when NASA accidentally leaves you on Mars they roll out the red carpet for you.

Well I wasn’t going to be able to go right back to sleep, because the adrenaline shot she gave me would power me through the apocalypse. Instead I stared at my photos, memorizing my mom and dad’s faces.

Is it just me, or is my body heavier?

I roll over to the radio in my room. “What’s the gravity in the quarters?”

“0.5gs” Johanssen answers. Is all she do hide in the comm room? “We’re working back up to 1.”

The Hermes keeps the quarters and the fitness room in 1g, so that our bodies don’t deteriorate from too long in space. Sleeping in gravity goes a long way toward people not dying.

But I haven’t been in 1g in years. I’m starved out and weak. I’m not sure my body could handle the strain. This seems like a major oversight on their part.

“You should ask Beck if I can handle that,” I groggily mumble.

“Shit, yeah,” Johanssen said, voice tight. “Sorry, forgot.” I’m jealous. I’d love to forget.

There’s a knock at the door. “Come in,” I yell, as loudly as I can manage.

It’s Lewis, back again. “I was nearest you. Beck says that we’re just going to move your cot to a 0.4g area.”

“Where would that be?” I ask. The 0.4g area were the labs, kept at martian gravity for obvious reasons. “Also, that’s gonna be cold.”

“The lab area,” she said. “I was thinking we’d put you in an unused lab.”

“Can I request my lab?” I ask. “I can keep the temp up with the life support systems for the plants.”

She tilts her head. “That’s a decent idea. Now get up.”

I can tell I’m heavier as I drag my battered and broken body out of that mattress. I feel barely strong enough to stand on my own two legs, and I lean against the wall for support.

“Any longer and I would have suffocated from the gravity,” I joked weakly.

In retrospect, that was in poor taste; they view me as a failure of their’s, and joking about my condition just rubs it in their face. It isn’t supposed my job to be strong for them and help them get over their grief, but somehow in 5 days the responsibility has already fallen to me whether I like it or not.

She’s got my mattress and sheets piled up and is holding the door open for me. She doesn’t even pretend to laugh at my joke, and her face is stiff. I’m sorry I said anything.

Getting to my lab is a sullen affair, because I don’t ask for help and she seems too stiff to offer it. I want her to offer help, but I can’t shore up the emotional reserves to ask.

There are empty tables and lab carts everywhere, so they are swept aside in one motion by Lewis as she plops the bedding down and spreads it out.

She frowns, looking at her creation, which amounts to a nest of blankets on top of a thin mattress on the floor. “It just seems cruel to tell the guy we just rescued that he has to sleep on the floor,” she admitted.

I shrug, now more able to stand in the lighter gravity, around 0.2g at the moment. “It’s a lot better than where I was, let me tell you.”

For one, this lab is positively spacious. I can lay down in both directions with half a foot of room to stretch. Not like the fucking rover. For two, I am not worried I’m going to pop like a grape in the night.

She gives me a warm look. “Try to get some sleep.”

I nod as I ease myself onto the floor. What do you know, the Hermes mattress is just as amazingly comfortable in the lab, too. Still a featherbed after all.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 692

You know, we never drilled for if someone got left behind.

If someone was outside, like me, and their suit got breached, like me, it would have been impossible to get me into the Hab or the MAV in time for me not to suffocate. Theoretically, if my suit was breached, either I could fix it with my resin, or the hole was so large I popped like a grape. There would be no time for someone else to get to me with their resin, and there’s little chance their resin would make any difference anyways.

According to NASA, they did the right thing. My suit was depressurized, and I would have been dead in minutes. No time to save me.

If I hadn’t depressurized, and the biomonitor hadn’t been stabbed, though, I might have been unconscious and injured. Then again, no injury wouldn’t have depressurized the suit, and without the insane luck to land obliquely, I would have still died in minutes. So really, there was no conceivable circumstance where someone would be injured and unable to get to the MAV.

I know that’s not how it would have worked in reality, though. They would have known to home in on my suit, and I’m not sure how they would have gotten my body onto the MAV, but I know Lewis would have tried her damndest.

Then again, had Lewis found me, she would have been without recourse. It’s really not that inconceivable that someone would be alive and unable to move themselves into the MAV, now that I think about it. What if a man was injured inside the Hab and unable to move to the MAV? What if someone was in the Hab but we have to launch _now_ or the MAV breaks?

I guess NASA just figured any conditions that would require leaving a man behind alive would be the sort of conditions where that man was going to die anyways. The kind of serious injury that would ground someone is the kind that would kill them in ascent. But shouldn’t NASA have known to provide emergency rations?

Then again, NASA doesn’t have the money for 4 years worth of provisions, or they would probably make us do two year stays. And until me, we had no idea Mars soil was even appropriate for cultivation. So I guess the situation wouldn’t have changed for the trapped man; best to proceed as if they died already.

NASA is a bit dystopian that way. Best to leave one man for dead and save the whole of space flight than set science back fifty years over one life. Before I left I agreed with that philosophy and… honestly, if it were a case of me just dying outright, I’d still agree. But instead of dying outright, I got a lot of suffering and probable death, which for some reason is a lot worse.

But I did say NASA is a bit dystopian. The people who set these policies probably just expected a man in my position to kneel into the dirt and die. Part of me still thinks I should have.

Not that I think Lewis would have _ever_ left me behind alive. Luckily for the crew, they thought I was dead. I say luckily for the crew, because it meant they lifted off the MAV before it tipped and we were all stranded. Although, maybe if the MAV tipped, we could have all gone to Schiaparelli together and taken that MAV ( _intact_ ) to the Hermes, which would have still been orbiting (so no terrifying modifications), and we wouldn’t have been stranded more than 100 days. We’d starve a bit, but be better off than I am now.

No, we couldn’t have, because we would not have all fit in the rover. I don’t know, though; when you have literally no other options, you find a way to make things work. We could have found a way to shove everything into the trailer.

I’m glad that’s not what happened, though. I don’t want the rest of the crew to have gone through such a horrid experience just so I could avoid pain.

Yeah, NASA prepared all they could, but I’m a little hurt that their preparation in this situation turned out to be “fuck, he’ll probably die anyways.”

Don’t get me wrong - I’m thrilled not to be on Mars, and that’s the work of NASA. It’s my favorite thing in the world, looking at my quarters and thinking “not Mars.” I don’t think I’m ever really going to hate a situation again, because if I hate what’s going on I can just think ‘not Mars’ and it’s put into perspective.

But… you know what, no use for man pride here. I feel like a victim. I feel like a victim of Mars, and I feel like a victim of NASA. If anyone had been better prepared, I wouldn’t have had to suffer 549 days of holocaust-quality lifestyle. Yeah, I just said my lifestyle was like the holocaust. Starvation, mandatory backbreaking labor, brutal injuries, constant pain, cramped conditions, and living in my own shit.

Well, it wasn’t as bad as the holocaust, because 1) I had disco, tv and baths, and 2) I didn’t get raped and shoved into a gas chamber in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for Beck and Lewis sitting in on Mark is unapologetically lifted from another fanfic called one of us (you brought me in from the cold) by caphairdadbeard on ao3. Please don’t be mad, I lifted the idea because it’s accurate and now that I know it exists, it would be an injustice not to include it in my attempt to stay as sincere as possible to the original work.
> 
> Also, it's not covered in the text, but Lewis bursts into Mark's room to watch him sleep and didn't actually think he'd be awake, so she had to scramble to find something to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 694

Beck knocked at the corner of the lab door, but Watney didn’t stir. Beck decided earlier that he would not wake Watney just to do medical checks, so he was about to turn on his heel and leave him alone, but Watney’s mumbling caught his ear. He couldn’t make it out, but Watney was curled on his side, hands twitching against the covers.

Beck remembered the Missed Orbit scenario, remembered spending three days with this crew in the MAV. He knew everyone’s sleep patterns, and Mark’s was ‘fall asleep wherever he is and never wake up.’

Now, it seemed like his body barely maintained sleep, despite Watney’s insistence that his sleep was deep. One of NASA’s papers said that in victims of solitary confinement, sometimes sleep patterns degraded. In other words, people couldn’t stay properly conscious, but they couldn’t actually fall asleep either, stuck in limbo. Beck would bet anything that that happened to Mark, that the nightmare he was currently trapped in was the most meaningful sleep he’s had in weeks.

Marking ‘sleep degredation’ on Watney’s chart, Beck tried not to think about what that actually meant. Days of laying half awake in the rover, staring at the ceiling, unable to wake up, unable to sleep, unable to think, unable to function. A brain so damaged it couldn’t sleep anymore, couldn’t be awake anymore, couldn’t do anything but run itself into the dirt.

Something in Beck’s chest solidified; he was going to do everything he could for Mark.

After a moment, he could make out Watney’s mumbling. “I’m going back to Earth, back to Earth, back to Earth…” Was Watney awake? How did he not notice him?

Beck decided to quietly retreat out of the room before he found out.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 695

I’ve spent the last few days on the floor of my lab, eating and sleeping, mostly sleeping. It’s actually not _my_ lab, Beck and I share it, but Beck doesn’t have any more science and everyone’s really respecting my need for privacy. The lab doesn’t have a door but the crew seems to be avoiding the entrance, and any time they are around here they’re super quiet. I still hear them, of course, but it’s a nice effort.

Every time I wake up I feel pasty and confused, and I think ‘maybe this time I _won’t_ sleep for twelve hours,’ and then I do anyways.

The acute excitement of being not-on-Mars is wearing off. Don’t get me wrong - I’m still excited, but I’ve stopped repeating it to myself every thirty seconds. It’s only on a near-constant loop in my head, not a near-constant loop out of my mouth.

What I feel now is… fuzzy. I haven’t really explored the Hermes outside of the lab yet. I mean, I doubt it’s changed since I left. Beck checks up on me regularly, poking me with needles and prodding me and taking my blood pressure every thirty seconds. I can’t summon the will to do anything but lay here in bed. I don’t know what anyone is doing for science, because they’re all sneaking around like mice. I’m just laying in my nest of comforters, drifting in and out of sleep. Frankly, I’ve been doing backbreaking labor for over a year and a half straight, I don’t feel bad taking some time off. I’m just wondering when laying here and being on the edge of sleep is going to get boring. Beck told me that sleeping a lot is a side-effect of fucking destroying your body.

Not in those words; he said something much more smart and doctor-ly. Sleep cycle degredation, he said.

I’m going to talk to everyone who saved me, that’s definitely on my list of things to do, but for right now I just want to sleep. I’m sure that people who spent three billion dollars and all of their waking hours saving me would want me to just take it easy, instead of compromising everything they did. Besides, I spent 549 Sols on Mars, I probably represent some sort of valuable Mars research all on my own. I’m sure soon enough Beck will be up my ass with medical instruments and attempts to study me, on behalf of doctors everywhere.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 695

**Later That Day**

Everyone is off doing something important or sciencey, so I’m floating around the 0g ship section like it’s my mission to rediscover every single part of it. Everything hurts, but I have a _bunch_ of drugs in me and I want to get reacquainted with the ship. I won’t write this in a log since NASA probably would disapprove, but… being in 0g high is _great_. It’s as comfortable as sitting in a gigantic squishy chair _and_ you can move while it’s happening. I’ve got a big stupid grin plastered on my face, I can actually feel it there.

It’s not a large ship, so I make a point of lingering in every single uninhabited nook and cranny. The ship has lots of access closets and corridors. Some of those corridors are only small enough for one person because they are for maintenance. It’s easy enough for me to find one under the hull and just slide in. It’s just for an electrical access panel and a good view of the underside of the Hermes, but something about the coziness of the space makes me feel better.

I float there a long while, just looking at the Hermes. I’m glad to see this ship again. I’m glad to see the inky blackness of space, too; it’s not the horrid red atmosphere of Mars.

Being in space helps you put your problems in perspective. Everything is small next to the vastness of space.

Eventually, I leave. I see the crew as I drift by doorways, and my heart leaps whenever my eyes land on them, but I don’t linger. I’d love to stand at the door and stare at them - I do as long as I can without being weird. But… I don’t want to talk to them.

I’m not ready to talk to them yet, at least outside of routine conversation. I’ve tried to talk to them, a little, but if I am in their presence more than ten minutes the conversation goes _there_ , and I don’t want that. I’d love to just sit in their company and listen to them carry on conversation with each other, love to just sit and listen to the sounds of their voices.

But I settle for floating outside the door of the room they’re in, listening to the sounds of their movement or listen to them mutter to themselves about science.

Hopefully nobody notices me doing that, but I realize that I’m probably not going to get what I want here.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 696

Johanssen and Beck were in the lab, Johanssen running Hermes condition checks while Beck ran 0g bacterial studies.

“Chris,” Johanssen said quietly, “I don't mean to annoy you, I know everyone must be asking you this, but…”

Beck sighed. “He hasn't come out of his room since the other day, is anything wrong, is everything okay?”

Johanssen shrugged. “You're the only one who sees him, and you see him multiple times a day.”

“Not for long. I just ask him questions about pain and he mumbles his answers before flopping back on the bed…” Beck leaned over the table. “He's a victim of starvation and his sleep cycle degraded on Mars. It's completely expected for him to be sleeping fifteen hours a day for a couple weeks.”

“Yeah, but what about the time he's awake?” She asked expectantly.

Beck heaved a sigh. “I don't want to speculate on his condition, but… If he doesn't come out of his room soon, we’ll do something about it, Beth. I promise.”

“So he's not, like, going crazy in there?” She asked, a laugh covering how uncomfortable she was with the question.

Beck had no answer.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 697

“Knock knock,” Beck said, standing at the corner of the lab.

Watney was dozing, and pried his eyes open at the sound of Beck’s voice. “Hello Doctor,” he mumbles, back to Beck, no longer even bothering to sit up.

“I have news back from NASA about your condition,” Beck said, brandishing his tablet.

He groaned, and rolled over to face the doctor. “Fun fun. So how broken am I?”

Beck looked down, swiping through pages. “I suspect you already know. We can’t come to any firm conclusion on the back pain, but we’ve ruled out broken bones and misalignments, so we’re all betting on herniated disc, _but_ we can’t diagnose that on board. You’ve got osteoarthritis, which is why your joints hurt, and NASA scientists are going to have a field day figuring out how you got that. Nutritional deficiencies, low level, starvation, bone density loss, muscle mass loss,” he swiped through a couple more pages. 

Beck looked at Watney for a moment, considering his appearance. Stark cheekbones poking out of his face, tired eyes peeing up at him from under the sheets, face discolored and bruised. “I feel obligated to mention that, as a doctor, I have no idea how you're alive.”

Watney gives a crooked grin. 

He rolls his eyes, continuing. “Sleep disturbances, sleep cycle degradation - your circadian rhythm has lengthened to the length of a sol, doctors are gonna love studying that too…” swipe through a couple more pages. “Uh, they’re concerned about infection due to the fact that you were isolated in what amounts to a cleanroom, but you were isolated with us _before_ you were isolated on Mars, so the bacteria you were exposed to in the Hab is extraordinarily similar to the bacteria here, so they aren’t too concerned…” More swiping.

Beck shoved this on the end of a paragraph, couching it in a casual mention to gauge Watney’s reaction. “That’s it, for now. They’re eager for me to do a full psych evaluation, no matter how many times I’ve assured them you aren’t going to go crazy.”

Watney laughed a dry, humorless laugh. “Don’t bet on anything yet.”

Beck expected a ‘what the fuck,’ or ‘we’re out of the danger zone, aren’t we?’ Not… that.

He rolled his eyes. “Even if you are gonna go crazy, NASA psychiatrists are less than helpful at ten light-minutes away - Oh yeah,” Beck remembered, swiping to another page. “And they think you probably suffered from radiation on Mars, but they have no idea how much. The Hab wasn’t a perfect seal, and NASA decided that astronauts were exposed to a safe level on a 31 day trip, but said that ‘levels for 549 sols would not be safe.’ NASA, helpful as usual. However, they aren’t exactly sure how much protection the Hab offered over time, with wear and tear, e.t.c….”

“So I’ll die of radiation poisoning after all?” Watney quipped.

Beck sighed dramatically. “You’ll experience low levels of radiation effects for 3-12 months. You’re probably already experiencing them. Nausea, vomiting, loss of appetite, abdominal pain, fatigue due to anemia, dizziness, headache, changes in consciousness, any of those ringing a bell?”

Watney nodded from his position on the bed. “Almost all of them, been happening for a couple months now.”

Beck tutted. “The doctors at NASA won’t like that.”

Something leaves Watney’s expression, and suddenly it looks distant and cold. “Will I live?” He asks calmly, too calmly.

Cold settles in Beck’s heart. “If you were going to die from it, you’d have already done so,” Beck reassured him. “It’ll only get better from here.” He was hoping it would appease him, but instead he just nodded as if it were of no importance.

He’s is still exhausted, struggling to keep his eyes open. “Any word on why I’m so tired?”

“Well, radiation, but also the sleep degredation, remember? Basically, you can’t stay awake, but you can’t get real sleep either. When’s the last time you remember sleeping well?”

“Define ‘well.’”

“Uh, not waking up feeling like you didn’t sleep in the first place.”

Watney stared at the ceiling for a moment, exhausted. “Sol 5?” he laughed. “Ha ha. No, uh, before I got to the MAV? No, probably before the rover flipped…” Watney started muttering to himself.

Watney’s muttering was really beginning to creep Beck out.

“Probably before Pathfinder lost contact,” he said a moment later.

The cold seeped further into Beck’s chest. His sleep cycle might have been fucked up for _months_. “That was quite a while ago,” Beck says, working to keep his voice light.

Watney shrugged. “I’m sleeping now, so who cares.”

Beck clipped the pen to the tablet, shaking himself off on the inside. “That’s true. I’ll let you get to it. Radio if you need anything,” he said, standing from the chair he took.

Watney waved lazily, flipped back over, and pulled the covers up as Beck left.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 697

Long-term space travel is really hard on a person. The Ares I mission received a lot of attention for this reason, because they anticipated that some never-before-seen psychological consequences of space travel might arise.

They were right, too. One of the members of Ares I, Michael Haber, got delusional on the way home, thought that he could just take a walk outside the Hermes without a suit. He was actually tackled outside an airlock door, and on all Ares missions since there has been a restraint chair in storage just in case.

The restraint chair, by the way, is exactly what it sounds like. Should someone crack like a gourd, we are to strap them into the chair for the duration of the mission. You basically get covered with so many restraints you’d barely be able to move, so that no one can break out. Once someone is locked in the chair they are not allowed out, no matter how sane they appear to be, because once they’re in the chair we have to assume they’re crazy enough to sabotage the ship. I do _not_ want to be in the restraint chair. Well, it’s more of a restraint recliner, it flattens so the person in it can sleep, but the point still stands.

The entire time on Mars I had this recurring nightmare that I would just get up one day and walk out the airlock, too.

I feel like the entire crew is just waiting for me to pull a Haber. I haven’t really come out of my shell to talk to anyone yet, and I know I could reassure them if I just did that, but… Fuck, I just can’t. They’re here, taking care of me, and I’m resting, and that’s amazing, but… I don’t know how to talk to them. Or what to say if I could.

I wish I could just sit around them without talking, listen to them with no pressure. I think that every day. But I can’t, because everyone is making it their job to pry things out of me. And I know, hiding and not talking to them is only gonna make them want to pry more, which makes me want to hide more, it’s a bad cycle. But why is it my job to deal with all this shit?

I haven’t spoken to anyone in years. Literally, years. _Years_ I’ve been sitting in silence, with nothing my own thoughts. Now I finally have people to talk to but I don’t want to say what they want me to say, and I’m reduced to hiding from them all over again. I can see them though, but I can’t talk to them, the sight is fucking taunting me.

I’m going to just try to fall asleep again, forget about it.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 698

I guess it took 6 solid days of 10 hours a day of sleep and 5 hours a day of being half-asleep for my body to decide I was done sleeping. Also, Beck is stepping down my pain meds, which means I won’t be high as a kite anymore, which is probably why I was sleeping. It was great, and I needed it, but now it’s time to get back to sobriety. Man, I haven’t been completely sober in a while.

Also, it’s 3:00, and my body decided to let me know sleep wasn’t an option anymore by giving me a nightmare of the antenna stabbing straight through my EVA suit. Except this time, I was conscious as I listened to the MAV lift off, and the radio in my EVA suit go dead. It was horrifying. I don’t know if unconscious brains can record that sort of information, but I damn well hope not.

I’ll tell you what, it wasn’t the pain that woke me.

I hurt my back sitting up ramrod straight from the shock, and then my back was excruciating, and I had to bite my hand to keep from crying out about it because I have no door and they would definitely hear. After that pain danced through my body like a fat drunk guy at a bar, I couldn’t get back to sleep.

That dream rattled me. I feel like I’m vibrating. I’m tempted to go wake someone up just to make sure I’m not alone on the Hermes. But I know damn well I’m not, where would they have gone? I’d get up and walk around, except that my back and legs and front and pretty much everywhere is telling me that’s a horrible idea.

It’s not helping that this ship is so quiet. The engine doesn’t make any noise, since it’s just expelling ions, and these walls are well insulated because they are insulated with the vacuum of space, so the noises of the machinery are faint. Which I’m learning is not something I enjoy, because it’s only increasing my temptation to go get up and make sure everything is okay. A quiet Hab is a broken Hab, after all.

The memory of the shut down Hab flashes in my mind. Utterly silent. Dark. _Dead. Everything on this planet is dead._

I shiver, and thrust the memories away. I’m just going to lay down here, on my side, curl up, and try to forget about it. The shaking in my hands is going to make that difficult, but what are you gonna do. Eventually, _eventually_ , I’ll fall asleep.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 698

I haven’t gone to sleep by the time Beck comes to check on me, four hours later. The shaking stopped a couple of hours ago and I got sort of drowsy, but I kept reflexively wanting to get up and check on the crew. I wasn’t fully awake though, the time passing in 25-45 minute chunks. I laid here on top of the covers, reminding myself that there was nowhere the crew could have gone. My body didn’t care.

“Are you awake?” Beck’s quiet voice invaded my consciousness, peeking around the door frame.

I jerked back at the unexpected sound of his voice, and I know damn well that was visible. “Yeah,” I mumbled, still staring at the wall. He didn’t knock, probably expecting me to be asleep.

“How much sleep did you get?” he queried.

My response is flat. “Not enough.”

Beck made a tutting nose. “I’m your doctor.” How does he always know when I’m holding something back?

“Three or four hours, I don’t know.”

He starts fluttering about the lab in doctor-mode. “Why?”

“Had a nightmare, woke me up. Laid here the rest of the night.”

“That’s not surprising,” came Beck’s professional-doctor voice. “Since you’re up, you should come have breakfast with us. It will do you good to get out of bed.”

Now that Beck was here and I knew they didn’t abandon me, I really didn’t want to get out of this bed. You’d think after ten straight days in bed I’d want to get up, but the idea really didn’t appeal to me.

It didn’t specifically repulse me, either, so I sat up and groaned. “Okay, let me get a shower.”

Beck waved his assent and left the lab.

I was alone in the room, and suddenly there was that anxiety again, fluttering against the inside of my chest. _Something is about to go wrong_.

If I was being honest with myself, I’d say the constant anxiety of being moments away from death on Mars did something to me, something bad.

But, I am _not_ being honest with myself. I am employing the tried and true ‘deal with it later’ method of coping, my personal favorite.

I trudged down the hall to the shower. Sitting in the MAV before takeoff, I acknowledged that there was going to be difficulty after being picked up, and now I’m seeing what it is. They left behind Mark Watney, stable, confident botanist-engineer-astronaut. But… I really don’t know who they picked up.

Who am I?

Near the end, of Mars, I felt dead. Like my body was on autopilot, and I wasn’t the one inside it anymore. Like I was just watching myself from above. The feeling was coming over me again, standing in the hot shower. The temperature of the water felt muted, as if everything had been turned down. Mark’s not in right now, come by later.

The ten minutes of Hermes shower water ended too soon. I felt myself towel off, avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. I brush my teeth until my gums bleed, and then I keep brushing some more, because I haven’t brushed my teeth in two years and if I have a cavity there is jack shit we can do about it on the Hermes.

I came downstairs to find everyone already seated, although they hadn’t started eating yet. “Nice of you to finally join us,” was Lewis’s dry retort.

I know what kind of response a dry retort calls for. Time to bust out my whiny voice. “Beck made me do it. I’d still be in bed if it wasn’t for him.”

“You’ve been in bed 10 days man, you gotta get up sometime,” Beck admonished.

“I could sleep ten more days,” I admitted, feeling my lower spine. I put my hands against it, rubbing, as if that would relieve anything. “It was just nice to wake up for once and not have anything to do.” I’m exhausted, thank god the rec room is in 0.2g.

“Yeah, we only were assigned scientific work for one Ares trip, not two, so some of us have already finished all the assigned work,” Vogel said.

“It’s Vogel,” Johanssen supplied promptly. “Vogel has finished his work, and has been keeping your flowers alive. Martinez has taken over your engineering duties, since Martinez doesn’t do anything.”

“So same as usual?” I quipped. Martinez’s eye roll made me feel at home.

I turn my eye to Vogel. “You didn’t kill my flowers, did you?”

“Your flowers are still alive, despite my ministrations,” Vogel said in his thick accent.

Martinez, however, had something else on his mind. “Johanssen, you can criticize real engineering when you become a real engineer.”

Ah yes, the time-honored software/hardware debate. Hardware guys are pretentious because they’re the ones making a physical thing, software devs are pretentious because without their code the physical things wouldn’t work. Hardware guys consider themselves the _real_ engineers (that’s me and Martinez) and software devs consider themselves artists who paint with code.

Johanssen scoffed. “Whatever, I don’t need this. It was my code that let us go save Watney.”

Martinez was quick to retort. “It was my piloting that got him on board!”

“What?” I asked, confused about what Johanssen said. Why would they have needed code to save me? Well, besides the sysoping. It didn’t sound like they were talking about her routine mission duties.

“We…” she looked at me with new eyes. “Didn’t NASA tell you?”

“Tell me what?” I said, putting the silverware down. My heart sank, in exactly the way it always did when NASA fucked up.

Wow, there is a ‘way my heart always sinks when NASA fucks up.’ When did that become a part of my life?

“Is there any way we can save this conversation for later?” came Beck’s imploring voice. “This is only his second time out of bed.”

That didn’t inspire me. God fucking _damnit_ , NASA. “No. What didn’t NASA tell me?” I can feel my face already turning sour and pissy.

Everyone looked to everyone else, wondering who would take the bullet. Lewis put her head in her hands, clearly tired, and spoke. “The maneuver to swing around earth was proposed by an engineer, Rich Purnell, while they were working on Iris 2. They originally intended to send it to you, as you know. They proposed it to Kapoor, Sanders, Bruce, the whole rescue-Watney team.” Her voice turns hard. ”The motion to do it was denied. Someone snuck it to us, I believe Mitch, in a file disguised as a photo. We committed mutiny by executing it. NASA pretended it was their idea to the public.”

Johanssen joined. “Yeah, I had to take down half the computer so that they couldn’t override Vogel’s course. By doing it we forced NASA’s hand, so they sent Iris 2 to us and we got to come back for you.”

“You forced NASA’s hand?” I asked tonelessly.

On the one hand: Go team! Screw NASA, fuck those guys.

On the other hand: “You could have died!” I find myself yelling, standing. “What if they couldn’t get the Taiyang Shen to you!?”

Johanssen immediately covered for the team. “It’s not like we surprised them. They had over a month of lead time once we altered the course -”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, breathing hard through my teeth, and she falls silent. I’m suppressing the urge to throw something across the bridge. Now that I’m back with civilization, I can’t just have a temper tantrum and storm around the Hermes and throw things off tables like I usually do.

“I’m glad you came back for me,” I said harshly, trying to empathize with their situation, “But…” Our pre-flight emotional training echoed in my mind. _Acknowledge their situation. Don’t judge_. I’m pinching the bridge of my nose, still. “But I wouldn’t want you to die rescuing me!”

“The risks were the same, mutiny or no mutiny,” Johanssen insisted. “They had so much warning that it was ridiculous. They already had authorization for the Taiyang Shen. All they had to do was change the payload and make Iris 2 not a crash-lander. We were actually making their job easier.”

There’s a ridiculous double standard in my head; I get to disobey NASA and disassemble the water reclaimer whenever I want, but they don’t get to move an inch without NASA’s command. And I know why it’s there: I don’t care if I die, but I care if they do.

But I didn’t die. They didn’t die. Nobody died. Johanssen’s right; mutiny or no mutiny, it’s the same maneuver.

“I was terrified when I heard you were coming back,” I admit angrily, now wringing my hands, looking up at them. “I was thrilled, because, _duh_ , but I was terrified. I know the Hermes could break down. My life isn’t worth all of yours. And now I find out it was _mutiny_ , so you might not have gotten the resupply…”

“The ship is doing fine,” Lewis said firmly. “We are having _routine_ maintenance problems, and Vogel and Martinez are handling them spectacularly. We are planning to get back to Earth without even needing to do any more maintenance.”

I gave her a flat look. “In my extensive experience with unplanned space travel, there is no such thing as a plan that survives first contact with the enemy.”

They all look highly disturbed at that. Afraid. Good, they should be afraid, this shit’s terrifying.

New Mark Watney Personality Trait: Jaded.

I float up the rec room ladder, leaving them to their horrified expressions.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 698

The comment Mark left them with was unsettling, sitting heavy like lead in their stomachs.

“He’s right,” Johanssen said heavily. “Something else will probably go wrong.”

Lewis shrugged. “We can’t do anything but handle problems as they arise. NASA has sent us all the information we need to prevent things. There’s nothing more we can do.”

After a moment of silence, Martinez “What was that about? We did that to save his life, you’d think he’d be thanking us.”

“You really don’t know what that’s about?” Lewis asked quietly.

Martinez rubbed his forehead, deflating. “I do. But you’d think since it was already successful, he wouldn’t be mad.”

Lewis shrugged, nonchalant. “We rescued Mark successfully. I still feel guilty.”

Martinez looked up uncertainly. “I don’t want to pile on, Commander, but… that’s different. We actually _did_ cause damage leaving Mark behind. But our turning back for Mark hasn’t caused any damage!”

“I find it amusing you’d say that,” Beck threw in, “since you’re the one with marital problems because of our change of plans.”

Martinez’s face turned defensive. “That’s not the same thing as a year and a half alone on Mars. Not at all.”

“Space travel has not insignificant psychological effects,” Beck reminded him. “Effects that we are all suffering from, even if we’re not talking about it.”

Martinez looked up. “The effects of Mark’s death were worse.”

“But he isn’t seeing it like that. He’s just seeing the damage it caused us, not the benefit. That’s what guilt does.”

Martinez leaned back in his seat, rubbing his face again. “I know, I know.”

“So I guess he’s gonna be this way, huh,” Johanssen said after a moment.

“What?” Martinez asked, thinking she meant him.

“No, Mark,” she said. “I guess he’s gonna be this way…” she trails off.

“Just give him some time,” Beck assured. “We’re all anxious about him, about the mission, jumping to conclusions, but we can’t do that to him.”

Lewis sat back. “Beck’s right. I know he’s our mission, and now keeping everyone intact until we get home is the mission, but nagging after Watney won’t help. Just like with the ship, we’ll handle problems _as_ they arise.”

They wrap up in the rec room, head off to their work.

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 699

Johanssen walked into the Rec room to find Watney standing in front of the window, watching Mars fade into the distance.

They had all caught him doing things like this by now, standing in corridors or outside doorways staring into the distance. His ability to notice whether or not they were there seemed patchy at best.

But Beth didn't think anything good could be going on in his head, with his eyes fixed on Mars like that. She didn't know what she was going to say, but she couldn't leave him like this.

“Watney!” She called across the room. 

He gave no response, still staring out the window. Well, that's not unusual, ever since he got back his ability to zone out had multiplied a hundredfold.

Johanssen bounced over to him. “Watney,” she said, gently shaking his shoulder.

He gave no response again, and she began to get a little worried. “Mark?” She gripped his shoulder hard, speaking loudly in his ear.

He started, jerking away from her suddenly, eyes roving across the room until they landed on her. “What?” he asked, panting.

“I was going to ask if you wanted to come hang out with Beck and I,” she said doubtfully.

She could see his answer in his eyes before it even happened.

“No, uh,” he said, rubbing his neck. “I'm exhausted, big surprise. I think I'm gonna go take a nap.”

She didn't think it was a lie, exactly, but she could sense the rejection in the words and it stung nonetheless. “If you want company,” she began to say.

He was already floating up the rec room ladder. “I know where to find you,” he finished.

As soon as he was gone, Johanssen turned to the view he was looking at. The red planet.

For a spiteful moment, she thinks ‘why the fuck did you take Mark from us?’

Then she remembers that it's them who left him there, it's her who wasn't close enough, it’s her who didn’t warn him in time, her who didn’t catch him.

The image of him flying into the darkness flashes in her mind. She imagines him landing in the darkness, waking up alone in that Hab, all alone. They abandoned him there.

Standing alone in the hallway, tears leak from Johanssen’s eyes.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 703

Escaping Mars is supposed to be great.

But I don’t feel so great, hauling my sorry ass out of bed at 7:00 to go get breakfast with everyone. I tossed and turned in my sleep all night, and all I can remember from my dreams are the howling winds of Mars and the desolate sight of a bunch of frozen potatoes in the martian night, like still images. It doesn’t make for a cheerful morning.

Dragging my sorry ass through the shower, it strikes me as odd that I’m not hungry. I sort of feel empty inside, physically, in my gut (and in my chest, _like usual_ ) which means I should eat, but the will to eat just isn’t there. I’m starving half to death, shouldn’t I be more excited about food?

I brush my teeth, trying to avoid looking at them in the mirror. Toothpaste is one of the first things we ran out of, and while NASA did medical tests for people with good dental histories (i.e. people who won’t get cavities), not brushing your teeth for a solid year and a half eventually yellows your teeth. Combine that with the terrible haircut and skeletal frame, and what I see staring back at me in the mirror looks more less like Mark Watney and more like a deranged homeless man.

I don’t want my teeth to be the color of a smoker’s nails, but no matter how furiously I brush I can’t remove that in a day. Fuck this.

I throw the toothbrush down in the sink, and watch it clang to the bottom. I trudge back to my room, not bothering to shave today. I’m barely growing any facial hair, something about starvation reducing nail and hair growth or some other medical shit. I used to love my own five o’ clock shadow, but now I’m just glad I don’t have to perform the tedious task of shaving every day.

I grab some more identical NASA clothes (Johanssen’s) and don them. In the mirror, the clothes hang off of me like rags. I look like shit, and shame pools in my gut over it. I would wear baggier clothes, but I know baggier clothes just make everything worse. I throw on a Beth Johanssen sweatshirt and some heavier weight pants, and it makes it look less like rags and more like pajamas.

My eyes focus in on the NASA logo. Fuck NASA. Fuck all of this.

It’s time to go eat breakfast, so I bounce over to the rec room and take my daily slow climb down the ladder. I am not strong enough to catch myself when sliding down anymore, so I have to climb the last few steps and take it slow. Just another idiotic thing I have to deal with because of Mars.

The rest of the crew sleepily comes in and eats breakfast, and I can’t bring myself to do anything more than push my eggs around the plate. I never liked rehydrated eggs all that much, but hey, _not potatoes_.

I can see that Vogel is still eating sausages every morning, and I’m appreciative of that tiny slice of normalcy.

This ship supposedly has a heating problem, but I would swear it’s too cold. My toes are curling in to hide, and I’m glad Beck left some of those hospital socks for sick people in my lab-bedroom. I don’t have an EVA suit to regulate my body temperature anymore, and I’m not alone in the building so I can’t set the temperature to whatever I like.

I force another mouthful of eggs down my throat. They are slimy and unappealing.

They’re making conversation about the day, but I’m not really listening.

Every morning on the Hermes every crew member is supposed to report for breakfast, where everyone states their goals and planned activities for the day. The schedule is premade by NASA, but we have to verify it daily to account for unexpected changes and adjustments. NASA intentionally overloads this schedule to prevent laziness or boredom or existential thoughts. But, they didn’t provide enough materials for 2 Ares missions. They’ve tried all kinds of mathematical gymnastics to come up with more but, alas, there just aren’t enough materials on board.

“Watney?” comes Lewis’s questioning voice. Right, my turn. What am I going to do today?

I look at Mars out the window, 16 days away. “Rest, recover, e-t-c,” I trail off, knowing that they won’t assign me any work. Lewis gives me a sideways look, but doesn’t say anything more. She dismisses the crew, and everyone gets up, including me.

Very cleverly, I act like I have a purpose until Lewis leaves the room. I want to hang around in front of the giant window.

Once she leaves, I just sit in front of the view of Mars. It’s still so enormous, even though it’s 16 solid days away. Within 200 days it’ll be a pinprick in the sky, and I’m never going to see it again.

The image looks like any you might get when Googling Mars, but something about the reality of the sight captures me. Nothing can compete with the richness of things seen with your own eyes. The thin orange haze around the planet that is made up entirely of red dust and rock, and my eyes capture it with incredible detail. The red planet, desolate and lifeless once more.

Something in me pulls for the planet. Honestly, something perverse in me is going to miss it. I signed up to be an astronaut because I wanted to see the stars. I was born in the nineties, not the year 3000, so the only planet I can come see is this red shitty one. I settled. I am the modern explorer, charting new and unknown terrain for the human race.

There’s something ethereal about being on another planet. I _hate_ that planet, that _particular_ planet, but at the end of the day, the vast horizons still inspire something inside of me, the same thing that’s inside all of us.

I stare at Mars, watch it fade ever so slowly into the distance.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 703

No one can ignore the way Watney looks today. He’s hunched over his eggs, taking small bites, and they would swear he doesn’t look thrilled about the quality of the Hermes food. His face is drawn, and there are bags under his eyes. Nobody says anything though, focusing on the routine they are trying to reestablish.

“All right, report,” Lewis says.

Vogel starts. “Continuing Mark’s botanical experiments. I believe today is just plant maintenance, so it is a light day. I will spend the rest of the day engaged in a productive hobby.”

It is ship policy that all crew members spend at least 8 hours a day being productive, filling the time with productive hobbies if there is no work to be done, because being engaged in meaningful work is the difference between thriving and depression.

“Johanssen?”

“Running reactor sims, measuring the rate of decay to make sure it holds steady, performing tests on all the Hermes components with a focus on the vanes to make sure they hold their rate of decay…”

“Beck?”

“Continuing to track Watney’s condition, reading the papers NASA sent me, tracking everyone’s health on board for…” he goes into a long winded medical explanation.

“Martinez?”

“Maintaining the outboard electrical…” Martinez, too, goes into some long winded Hermes explanation.

Everyone’s eyes turn to Watney, who doesn’t look up from his food. It doesn’t appear that he’s even listening to the conversation.

“Watney?” comes Lewis’s questioning voice.

Watney looks up, a little startled, but then looks out the window. “Rest, recover, e-t-c,” he trails off quietly.

It’s hard for everyone not to look at Watney with worry, his gaze still fixed above everyone else and out the window. It’s not hard to guess what he’s staring at.

“All right, dismissed,” Lewis says. Everyone dumps their dishes in the bin and, with long looks at Watney, leave the room.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 705

Another rousing morning, starting off with a nightmare about Mars and me jerking awake in a cold sweat. Something about the dead crops again, I think.

I’m never going to forget the sight, the green plants and rich dirt against the harsh and dead martian night. It will haunt me forever.

It’s comfortably warm in the botany lab. The heat lamps are pointed towards me, and I’m curled up in a nest of blankets. The clock says that it’s 6:00, which is actually not _too_ dreadfully early. Alarms go off at 7:00 and everyone is down in the rec room to eat by 8:00.

We’re the only people on this ship and all the lights are artificial, but even here 6:00 is too fucking early to wake up.

I’m ‘recovering,’ so I have no alarm to wake up with, no schedule to keep, but I find myself keeping to their schedule anyway. There’s just not a lot else to do. You’d think I’d be all over my personal effects, but no. I’m not interested in listening to any of my music, or watching my movies. I will at some point, because duh, but the urge hasn’t quite struck me yet.

That leads me to my next thought. I was hoping I’d be able to get on this ship and just go back to being Mark Watney, but it’s not panning out that way. I knew there would be some friction, but it’s more than that. I’m just not the same fucking guy anymore. Before, I laughed a lot, I joked a lot, I was always annoying someone. I was chosen for the mission in part due to my ‘outgoing nature’ and my ‘determination to make everything lighthearted,’ according to my psych report.

Since I’ve gotten back, all I’ve done is lay around the Hermes, look out windows, and fail to make small talk before fleeing to somewhere where I won’t have to do that. I lurk a lot, rifle through things, read the Hermes reports, but I don’t actually _do_ anything.

Where it gets _really_ weird is that I had an urge to listen to Lewis’s music yesterday when I was bored. I didn’t give in, of course, but it was fucking _weird_. It’s like my personality is still how it was when I was on Mars, set to equal parts depressed sulking and existential terror.

I’m banking on it being an adjustment period, like I’ve got to acclimate my subconcious to the fact that I’m not alone on that hellscape anymore. Yeah, brain, there are people to talk to and things to do now. There’s even a data dump that can fit music if I throw a fit to NASA. You don’t have to wander around like a crazy person anymore.

At least I’m emailing my parents long, detailed emails every day. I’m not having trouble talking to them, because it’s always easier to text then it is to talk. I’ve always been a momma’s boy, too. Just like on Mars, I’m holding on to those emails, rereading them every day. I can’t wait to be home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And once they know the truth, the full truth, my dreams of everything going back to normal are going to shatter like glass."

Log Entry  
Mission Day 707

I think I got addicted to Vicodin.

I’ve got cold sweats, I’m losing my appetite, my pain gets worse every day, and now I’m getting pain in places where I shouldn’t be getting pain. Also, I was taking a shitload of Vicodin when I was doing the MAV modifications, and it briefly crossed my mind that this might become a problem. I didn’t care at the time, because if I lived long enough for this to be a problem, then I’d take it.

I don’t regret it. Like I told Lewis, I did a lot of things that were stupid because I had no alternative. If I was in too much pain to work, I was going to die, so if an opiate addition got me to the end then it was all right with me. Except that it’s not all right with me anymore, because I’m getting worse.

The crew is getting worried. They’ve noticed I’m waking up early, and usually in the rec room before anyone else is, and if they’re clever cookies they’ve also noticed the dead way I’m staring out the window, the way I’ve lost my enthusiasm about eating (which is considered a ‘worrying sign’ in a known starvation victim), and the way I aimlessly drift around the Hermes.

It’s not like I’m ‘sad,’ or anything, it’s just this damn weight in my chest. It’s making it impossible to drag myself around the Hermes or will myself to do anything. I have plenty of stuff to do. I know that my martian potatoes are going to make a mad botany paper, but I have months to write it before we return. I’ve got experiments to finish, but I don’t want to finish them. NASA’s got a million people they want me to talk to about Mars, but I don’t want to do that either.

I was Mark Watney, Astronaut. Astronauts are kickass. Let alone astronaut, I’m actually a Space Pirate. But I don’t feel kickass right now, or like a space pirate. I just feel like a heavy weight drifting around the Hermes. I can’t summon excitement about my flowers, or about being in space. When did the coolness of being in space wear off?

Well, I know exactly that wore off. It wore off on Sol 6.

I’ll be happy when I never see space again. And seeing space was a huge part of Mark Watney, so I guess the old Mark Watney really is gone and not coming back. Guess their funeral wasn’t in vain after all.

I don’t know, maybe I’ll want to go to the ISS again. But I’d have to get in a rocket to do that, and that last rocket ride I took was enough for me not to want to ever get in a rocket again. Then again, on the grounds of ‘traumatic experience’ or some shit, NASA might never clear me to fly again. And most disturbing of all, I’m fine with that.

I bet I’ll get excited about my flowers again, eventually. I don’t really like flowers, actually, my favorites are the ferns that NASA sent along to test martian soil growth. Ferns are such a warm, friendly shade of green. But that part of Mark Watney is hiding too, for now, sick of having to spend his entire botany existence on potatoes.

Without botany and space, I’m not really sure what there is to be excited about on a ship where the only thing for me to do is space-botany. They are keeping me away from the engineering, worried that the crazy guy will do something crazy, I guess. I don’t want to consume any entertainment, because I’m not really interested in my own and I suspect that consuming to what I had access to on Mars won’t be good for me.

That’s probably why it’s so easy for me to drift around with nothing but this hole in my chest. Yes, I’ve officially decided it’s a hole, not lead. It’s creating pressure, but the way the martian atmosphere creates negative pressure. It’s my own little piece of Mars, wrapped up inside me in a to-go container.

Beck’s most likely noticed all this by now, since he’s the one checking up on me thirty times a day. He’s stopped bringing me food now, though, because I spend half my time sitting around in the Rec room eating all the snacks instead of real meals. Nobody has the heart to tell the victim of starvation to stop eating all the food. We have double-rations on the ship for unexpected situations, so it’s not like anyone is going hungry.

I stopped telling Beck about the nightmares, though, and I didn’t tell Beck about the hole in my chest. He probably just thinks I’m bored and am too tired to work, or that after working for 18 months nonstop I’m taking a vacation. Well, that’s fine with me. I would like a vacation, but you can’t get a vacation from crazy.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 707

Hours pass, but I don’t notice. I’m laying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

The darkness in my chest is consuming me, it’s all I can feel. It’s coated over my skin like death, anxiety is making my heart patter in the empty cavern of my chest. It’s physically painful, my skin feels like it’s burning all over my body, but there’s nothing I can do. Moving only hurts it more, and I can’t make it stop. It will stop when it wants, and not a moment sooner.

I remember this feeling, from Mars. But there are people now, people who could hug me but they won’t, they aren’t, they’re less than ten feet away but I can’t do it because fuck, if they wanted that they’d come bother me but they don’t, they’ve forgotten about me in here like I’m luggage, and maybe that’s all I ever was, forgotten luggage, forgotten on Mars and now that they’re remembered to pick me up I’m thrown into the cargo, forgotten again.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 707

It was lunch, and Watney was not present for today. The rest of the crew sat in the rec room, eating bland rehydrated food and discussing issues on board the ship. As had become somewhat regular, the conversation turned to Watney.

“Status report,” Lewis said, looking at Beck.

The schedule was for everyone to provide a midday progress report (to get everyone talking to each other and help each other think problems through), but since he’d stopped showing up, it had turned into a Watney pow-wow. Normally Watney’s condition would be strictly Beck’s business, and to a certain extent it was, but the crew member were necessarily deeply involved in his care given their situation, so they were routinely appraised of his progress.

“He was up early today,” Beck started, “For the usual reasons. Continuing to be reclusive. I’m concerned there’s another issue developing. He’s becoming less enthusiastic about eating, which is concerning for obvious reasons. As time passes he is withdrawing more, not less. All of these things indicate depression. I don’t think letting him take his own time is working.”

“What do you suggest?”

“I hate to make the poor guy do anything, but I suggest we make him do something. Get him out of the lab, give him some kind of work to do that forces him to be around us. I know that people need time to themselves to recover, but I’m not sure personal space is the best thing for a patient with trauma related to solitary isolation.”

Lewis nodded. “I’ve been thinking the same thing. I’ll bring it up with him at the next opportunity.”

—

Crew  
Mission Day 707

Vogel and Johanssen were sitting in their lab, which resembled an office more than a lab due to the fact that their skills were almost entirely computer-based, except for Chemistry. They were both on their computers today, running simulations.

“I feel bad for the guy,” Vogel said into the silence. “We’re always nosing into his business now, you know?”

Johanssen looked down, and despite her silent nature she was the most nosy on the ship. “It’s just… it’s just the six of us on this ship, and all we’ve done for a year is worry about him. Finally we can do something for him, even if it’s just to help him get better.”

Johanssen wears computer glasses to protect her eyes from the damage looking at screens can cause, and she takes them off to rub her eyes. “I hated sitting around uselessly.”

Vogel stopped typing. “I hate that too. Whenever anyone is in pain, all you can do is wait for them to ask for help.”

“You ever had to help anyone out like this before?” Johanssen asked. “I’ve never been depressed, or had depressed friends, or any of that.”

Vogel laughed. “No. But I was the one in pain once.”

“What?” Johanssen asked, nonplussed at the casual way he said it.

Vogel shrugged, looking at the table. “I don’t mention it because it makes people feel bad, but my parents were not good parents. They mistreated me greatly, and I ran away from home the second I turned 18.”

Johanssen’s eyes were wide. “You were abused?”

“I wouldn’t put it in such harsh terms, but yes,” Vogel said. “Not that I’m saying what I suffered is the same as Mark, but I do know about what it’s like to feel alone and to have no way to escape. Don’t worry,” he assured her, “I am fine now, but for a long time I was not.”

“I’m sorry, Alex,” she said sincerely.

“It’s in the past. But it taught me what being in pain and feeling alone feels like. I know from experience that when people feel alone, they usually hide from others. It makes no sense to people who haven’t gone through it, but...” Vogel shrugged. “It is what it is.”

“What do you think we should do?” Johanssen asked.

Vogel frowned. “That is the part I never figured out. What do you do when someone else is suffering? My own experience… only makes me _more_ confused about what to do. Not less.”

Johanssen laughed humorlessly. “Of course. That would be the way these things work, wouldn’t it?”

Vogel smiled wanly. “Indeed.”

—

Crew  
Mission Day 707

“I’m about to barge in there, and drag him out,” Martinez said. “It’s been a solid month, he’s not just sitting around sleeping anymore.”

“We can’t just drag him out,” Beck insisted. “So you burst in to get him out of bed, then what? We can’t watch any of our movies, because that’s what he had on Mars, and he won’t watch his own stuff.”

“We can play cards -”

“You know he won’t agree, Rick,” Beck says tiredly. “He’ll just come up with some bullshit excuse.”

Martinez rubbed his face, defeated.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 708

I _definitely_ got addicted to Vicodin, and now I’m going through withdrawal. I can tell, because all I did yesterday was lay around moaning in bed and being alternately anxious and irritated with everything. A quick jaunt through Beck’s medical crap told me these were symptomatic of withdrawal.

I don’t want to tell Beck, or anyone. The entire crew will flip out and treat me like an addict on a medical drama, when I haven’t done anything like steal entire bottles of Vicodin or whatever those addicts do. It would be stupidly easy, too, given that nothing on this ship has locks. But I haven’t even entertained the thought, and I know I’m not going to. I have entertained the thought of _asking_ for some, but then I’d have to explain myself, and that won’t work. Plus, if I take some, I’m just going to draw out the suffering of withdrawal. It’s not really _that_ bad. I just feel sort of sick to my stomach, and am in quite a bit of pain. Hey, what’s new about that?

Actually, this shit is really painful. In the past I might have demanded to be taken to a hospital over this level of pain, but one thing that was always a part of my life on Mars is pain, such as ‘the pain of long term starvation’ or ‘the pain of a back that just can’t lift this shit’ or ‘the pain of a back that doesn’t want to sleep in the rover again.’ This is just more of the same.

I don’t want to tell anyone because I don’t want anyone to know, either. If the crew knows, then NASA will know, and then I’m definitely going to be locked up like a crazy person. I don’t want to be 5150’d.

I already know that 18 months of isolation on Mars is going to make me a psych study candidate in a huge way, and this will only be like icing on the cake for the quack doctors. Nothing against quack doctors, I like Dr. Shields, I just don’t want to become a spectacle for the psychiatric community.

And besides, there are lots of real-life practical concerns, like my ability to get a job or do other things they don’t let drug addicts do. Basically the healthier I appear, the less I’m bothered.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 708

Beck knocked at the composite doorframe of Watney’s lab. “Watney, time for your daily checkup.”

Watney was laying in the bed, covers piled up around him. “Mean doctor tryna bother me,” he groaned, rolling over and away from Beck.

Beck thought it was a little ridiculous, how much time he spent laying on that bed. But between sleep cycle degredation and nightmares, it made sense, so Beck let it slide. It had only been 16 days since he was picked up, and god knows Beck spent more time than that sitting on his ass in college and _he_ didn’t even have a decent excuse back then.

“Yeah, yeah,” Beck said. “I brought food.” He offered a plate of reconstituted mac and cheese. The one mercy in all this is that the NASA food is so digestible that it served as Watney’s transition diet all on it’s own. They didn’t want to discover a crew member has a sensitive space stomach _after_ they’re shot into space, so they thought ultra-digestible food would solve the issue.

“Trying to bribe me into compliance?” Watney said in response, sitting up and rubbing his eyes, waking quickly. At least Watney was being religious about showering every day and eating at mealtimes, which is also more than college Beck could say.

Today’s checkup was like most daily checkups; take Watney’s BP (too low, from Martian gravity), take his heart rate (too low, from starvation), guess his weight from body mass (far, far too low), ask diagnostic questions about sleep and hunger patterns (all fucked up).

Watney’s responses to questions were curt. “They’re the same as always, okay?” he griped sourly, rubbing his arm from where the blood pressure monitor was. Beck frowned, but didn’t comment. This wasn’t the first time Watney acted put out by normal checkups, and his temper was getting shorter as the days passed.

‘Don’t psychoanalyze everything he does,’ Beck reasoned with himself. ‘Nobody likes doctor’s visits. It’s perfectly normal.’

“You should consider joining us for lunch today,” Beck said. Watney normally joined them for breakfast and dinner, but not for lunch. “I know you probably won’t eat anything since you’re on a different meal schedule, but we’d like to see you.”

Watney frowned at him, looked like he’d consider doing it. He ran his hand through his bedhead. “I’ll consider it.”

Beck frowned, but figured that was the best he’s gonna get. “I’ll drop by later,” he said, walking away.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 708

Later, when Beck returned for the food, it hadn’t been fully eaten and Watney was asleep facing the other way on the floor. The sight made Beck’s stomach sink.

Beck brought the plate of half eaten food back to the rec room, and Lewis was sitting at the table going over papers.

“Didn’t finish his food again,” he said lowly, cleaning the uneaten food off of it.

Lewis frowned. “You sound like there’s more.”

Beck shook his head. “The guy is acting sick and he’s not eating, but all his vitals check out. Classic depression. Space ships already cause depression, and I’m not equipped to adequately treat it when, frankly, we’re all suffering.

Lewis looked stressed, and leaned into her papers further. “We’ll just have to do the best we can.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 710

My day started early, as per usual, around 4:23 this time as I woke to find myself freezing despite the heat lamps. A nightmare, my hands are shaking, the bacteria in my potatoes weren’t growing right and I was going to die of starvation before the Hermes could come save me.

But look, I’m on the Hermes. Waking up thinking I’m on Mars sucks, but the realization that I’m on the Hermes is _awesome_ every day. Almost makes up for the time I woke up in the Hab thinking I was in Chicago.

Used to this routine, it doesn’t take me long to reconnect with reality and pull the covers up over my shoulders. I know damn well I’m shaky and awake now, but I don’t want to get out of bed and take a shower or do anything else. I don’t even want to think, and I perfected the art of laying in bed and studiously avoiding thinking months ago.

I roll over, look at the ceiling, and step out of my body for a while.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 710

Everyone else had intelligent answers for Commander Lewis’s breakfast ‘what the fuck are you gonna do with yourself’ every morning. My answers typically ranged from “lay in bed” to “how the fuck should I know.”

My answer today was “fuck around.”

Normally, Lewis gives me a pitying sort of look, and I drift off to go stare out a window or stare at a wall or cry or something. But today Lewis folded her hands, and I knew I was about to receive a scolding.

“I know you’ve just been through something traumatic…” she started. Her voice was warm and compassionate, and it made my chest feel drenched in ice.

“…and far be it from me to tell you how to cope. But you’ve been shut inside your lab for 17 days now, except for when you come out to eat and sort of drift around, not really talking to anyone…”

Have I been that bad? I haven’t been thinking about it.

“…it might be better for you to occupy yourself,” she finished, in the most gentle voice I’d ever heard anyone take.

Well, I thought I was skating by. Not _unnoticed_ , but not bad enough to warrant comment. Then again, they probably came to the same conclusion I did, that if Mark Watney loves space botany, and he isn’t doing space and isn’t doing botany, then he isn’t okay.

“We’re worried about you,” Johanssen bravely stated, joining the conversation. Clearly, they’d been conspiring about this, but I couldn’t draw attention to the fact that I know, or that would be awkward. See, I’m already getting better, I know what makes things awkward!

My answer was quick. “You shouldn’t be. I’m not on Mars anymore!” I said. Man, that always made me smile. “I’m safely on the Hermes.” I spread my arms out, as if to say ‘what’s to worry about?’

Beck furrowed his eyebrows. “You just went through a serious trauma.”

Frustration licked at my heart. What a fucking inane statement. “Don’t you think I know that?”

Beck recoils slightly, and immediately I feel bad for snapping at him.

I’m exhausted. I put my head in my hands, kneading. These are my crewmates, they are just trying to help, they are _trained_ to help. Don’t get mad at them for trying.

I groaned, to add flavor to my sob story. “For 549 days I lived in a Hab with a dirt floor, freaking out about potato growth and thinking about it 24.75 hours a Sol. I just don’t want to be responsible for a plant right now.”

“Surely there’s something on this ship that needs done,” Lewis said instead.

That suggestion gave me two feelings. The first was ‘great, because I’ve been having a lot of anxiety about the life support on the Hermes and now I can creep on it,’ and the second is ‘oh God I don’t want to be responsible for any life support anymore, please god _no_.’

“Preferably something sitting, because I still hurt all over,” I say instead, tamping down on my anxiety.

“You’re still in pain every day?” Beck asked clinically. Yeah, I am, and I’m not a doctor, but I saw a medical drama once with a doctor recovering from opiate addiction, and he was in a lot of pain, so I assumed it was part of the profile and didn’t mention it.

I shrugged Beck off, careful not to put too much effort into the gesture so he doesn’t read into it.

Martinez stuck a finger in the sky. “Reports,” he said, grinning wickedly.

Martinez was suggesting I have the dubious honor of sitting at the computer for hours a day, and write up the report of what everyone did that day. Normally Lewis took those logs at dinner and wrote them, but it didn’t really matter who did.

Sitting down? Check. Mindless? Check. Not space botany? Check.

I waved them off, digging into the reconstituted whatever-it-was. “Fine, fine, I’ll write the reports.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 710

I hate these damn reports. It’s been six hours and I’ve done jack shit.

The reason I’ve done jack shit is not (just) because I’m a terminally lazy asshole. It’s because every time I look at this screen, I lose my train of thought. It doesn’t go anywhere in particular, it just derails and I find myself uselessly staring at the computer screen. Then my chest hurts, then my skin hurts, and then something in me makes me realize that I’ve been sitting here for five solid minutes not doing anything, then I lift my hand to type, then the cycle starts all over again.

A part of me wants to go run up to someone and cry about how I thought I escaped Mars but Mars is still torturing me even when I’m not there, but I’m not going to do that. Because, _again_ , I’m not suffering that much. I’m not starving, I can eat whenever I want, I’m comfortable, and I don’t have to always be on high alert in case something goes wrong and explodes. I am on high alert, all the time, but I don’t _have_ to be.

I assume I’ll adjust. I assume that since I’m not alone, the loneliness will correct itself too. I’ve been assuming I’ll adjust for two weeks now, and I haven’t, and something tells me it won’t be that easy. But I ignore them, because two weeks isn’t that long. These things take time.

I hope nobody notices how slowly I’m doing these reports, because every movement is making pain shoot up my arm. Damn withdrawal. Between the losing my train of thought and the speed I’m typing, it really wouldn’t be beyond the crew to ask what’s fucking taking me. I don’t want to deal with it, so I send a wayward prayer to whatever God saved me just to say ‘I know that you already saved me and I know this is asking a lot, but can I just be left alone?’

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 712

I didn’t eat breakfast today, because my stomach felt _disgusting_. Starvation always made me feel sick because of the acid in my stomach, but today it’s performing triple duty and my stomach feels like it’s nothing but acid. Instead of eating breakfast, I got dry cereal and picked at it, much to the disapproval of Beck and Lewis, my self-appointed mother and father. Anything more than a bit of dry cereal is going to make my stomach do cirque de soleil quality acrobatics, so they can shove their concern where the sun don’t shine.

Watching me fail to eat breakfast, someone found the strength to ask what I suspect has been on all their minds for days.

“Are you doing okay?” Lewis asked, not unkindly. And that was not a ‘medical diagnostic’ question, I could hear it in her voice. This was a question about my _feelings_.

Yes, _okay_ , I’ve faced the music, the hole in my chest is clinical depression and is a perfectly natural response to trauma. Well, it’s probably PTSD if we’re all being accurate, but _whatever_.

We were told when we sighed up, as part of a risk assessment, that something like one in five astronauts get depression from a standard trip to the ISS. Something about the extended isolation, and lack of personal space, and 24/7 focus on science. The rates of depression are, of course, higher on Ares missions. That’s why we got favorite foods to come along, personal media sticks, and can request lots of frivolous and unimportant things through the data dump even though there’s limited data space.

I know the rest of the crew is already at higher risk, given that I died and then un-died and then they had to stay away from their families even longer. Their mental health outlook is already pretty bleak. For this reason, I specifically decline to think about my own.

Okay, she’s still looking at me, I need to produce some sort of response. “Yeah, I’m fine.” _Yeah Watney, that’ll convince them._

Lewis’s obviously unconvinced eyes stared back at me.

“What do you want me to say?” I’m glad my ability to deflect has not entirely left me.

“The truth,” she responded, a little sharply.

There’s that Commander voice. I was wondering when I would use up all of her sympathy.

We were put through a battery of exercises so that we’d be truthful with one another. Miscommunications create crew friction, and crew friction can get you killed. She’s not wrong to be frustrated if I’m not telling the truth.

I don’t want to get anyone killed, but what I’m hiding won’t fucking kill anyone. I’ve hidden my nightmares, for the most part, because what am I supposed to say? What am I supposed to tell them? ‘Yeah, you left me alone on an entire planet, and it dissolved my entire sense of identity and now I don’t know who I am.’ I was one of those people who defined themselves by their work, and then work went and fucked me.

I defined myself by them, and they left me.

“I’ll be fine,” I grumble instead, unconvincing even to my own ears.

I guess they got the message that I didn’t want to have a feelings-fest, since Lewis let it go and everyone just looked between themselves. There was a specific pattern of facial expressions, as if people even had their own little predetermined positions on the issue.

Lewis looks guilty. ‘I wish it was me,’ her face says.

Johanssen looked sad, and a bit determined. She wants to get to the bottom of this.

Martinez and Vogel look reserved. Let the man deal with things how he likes.

Beck’s eyebrow is raised, a little harder to determine. Probably something doctorly, like ‘the patient has to come to terms with his experience and begin recovery.’

I’m not the only one capable of drawn-out silences, it seems, because their little silent conversation stretches on.

After a couple of minutes, it gets downright ridiculous.

“I’m done with my food, I’ll go somewhere else so you can talk about me,” I say irritably, getting up and throwing my dishes in the bin.

Their faces are shocked as I climb up the ladder, as if I’m not capable of reading atmospheres.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 712

“I’m done with my food, I’ll go somewhere else so you can talk about me,” Watney bites, throwing his dishes in the bin so hard the bin moves. He’s up the ladder and out of the room in an instant.

The crew looked among themselves, ashamed.

“You are all being obnoxious,” Vogel says. “It is no wonder he is frustrated.”

“Obnoxious?” Johanssen asked. “What are we supposed to be doing?”

Vogel shrugs. “You are following him around, ambushing him with questions. No one would enjoy being treated like that. You two are the worst,” he says, pointing to Lewis and Johanssen. “He cannot get three feet onto the deck without being cornered by you.”

“What are we supposed to do, leave him to suffer?” Johanssen retorts, somewhat defensively.

“Look, we’re all just worried,” Beck says, offering a placating hand. “It’s fair to think we might be, uh…”

“Smothering him?” Martinez offered, laughing.

Beck smiled. “Yeah.”

“It’s like we’ve all forgotten how to behave around him,” Martinez says.

Beck shrugged. “Guess what, that was in a NASA report. ‘Personality changes in the patient may lead to crew conflict.’”

Beck and Martinez say the next thing in sync. “Thanks NASA.”

Lewis smiled, asking “Did the fine folks at NASA have any recommendations for overcoming this?”

Beck shook his head. “I mean, they suggested the equivalent of group therapy, but I don’t think that’s the right call right now.”

Lewis sat up. “You’re right, it’s not.” She smiled. “This is probably the weirdest order I’ve ever given, but crew, I order you to make an effort to talk to Watney about banal goings-on. No questions about anything sensitive.”

Everyone nodded their assent, smiling slightly, and left the rec room.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 712

I march back up to my lab. I’m going to sit there until they leave the rec room, and then me and my laptop can claim the squishy window chair.

Suddenly, I hear a knocking at my door. Shock darts into my heart and I jerk, spinning around in the lab chair. Vogel is standing there, looking a bit uncertain, hand rubbing his bald head.

I look down at the table, still frustrated with them. “Yeah, come in,” I grumble.

“I’m not here to corner you,” Vogel said, stepping in the door.

I quirk a smile. “I wouldn’t expect you of all people to corner me anyways,” I say.

“Well…” Vogel trailed. “I just wanted to say… I’m sorry. Sorry you are being treated like something broken that needs fixed.”

I snort. Vogel is the only person treating me like I’m not broken. He’s been keeping his distance, I suspect to make up for the fact that everyone else is flocking around me like upset birds.

“I appreciate it, Alex,” I say quietly, because I do.

I appreciate that he’s the only one still treating me like a person in all of this. Beck is constantly annoying me on NASA’s behalf, Johanssen is trying to stage an intervention, Lewis is guilt-riddled, and Martinez’s jokes just aren’t that funny to me anymore. Vogel is just hanging back, making conversation when it’s called for, waiting for me to come around on my own time.

“I’ll be in my lab, where I always am.” Vogel says, rapping the doorframe with his knuckles. “I am not going to annoy you, but I too am here if you need anyone.”

Suddenly the urge to say something, _anything_ , grips me.

I look up urgently, but he’s already gone. I do my best to ignore the sinking feeling in my heart.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 712

They all cleared out of the rec room soon enough, which meant I could return to the rec room to work on _reports,_ in the squishy chair in front of the window. Everyone bickered about who got to sit in this chair because it’s the most comfy chair on the ship, but ever since I got back everyone leaves it for me. Sitting in here and staring at Mars out the giant window was becoming some sort of masochistic past time for me.

It’s hard to get through these reports, because my fucking feelings keep distracting me. One of the most distracting ones is a crushing sense of guilt. Guilt over the fact that thousands of man hours and three billion and some dollars were spent saving me. _Me_. That money and time could have saved thousands of people starving in Africa, and yet it was spent saving one single wreck of a man on Mars, a man who, might I add, _is an asshole_.

I’m not saying that just to be self-deprecating. Mars gave me a lot of time to reflect. I was rude to people, minimized their problems, and mocked them for not doing as well in school or in life as me. I didn’t have a single fucking clue what it felt like to be depressed, or to struggle just to take another breath. The fact that anyone could feel this way and be expected to manage a life is astonishing.

So, the world shouldn’t have wasted money saving me. But lets think closer to home. The crew, the people I love most in this world (outside of my mom and dad), had to double their trip time and multiply their risk _unimaginably_ to come save me, in _addition_ to contracting clinical depression and, in Martinez and Lewis’s case, marital problems.

Lewis in particular is a wreck. I’m going to be a reminder of what she perceives as a failure, forever. She lost a friend, and in exchange she gained a walking guilt complex.

It would have been better if I just knelt into the dirt Sol 6. For everyone.

Another feeling distracting me from work is this… hot, ball of _anger,_ right in my chest. I almost like the feeling, it chases away the anxiety and depression, even if just for a moment.

For a long time, I thought the entirety of human existence had summarily wiped me from it’s pages. Mark Watney was forgotten on Mars; the most meaningful part of my life, unknown in it’s entirety. I was going to be the first man to do so many things, and I was going to die before anyone would know. It’s not that I want to be famous… I just don’t want to be _forgotten_.

My attitude during that time ranged from “they’re right, I am worthless, it’s good they left me here” to “fuck them for making me train for years just to send me out here to _die_.”

Then, NASA didn’t approve the motion to let the Hermes save me. I agree with them, because I’m not fucking worth it, but fuck them for abandoning me anyways. And fuck _me_ , for feeling angry that they didn’t approve it when they were in the right to do so.

This brings me around to feeling guilty for feeling guilty. I know in my head the crew wanted to save me, because if it was them who was stuck on Mars I know I would have done whatever it took to get them back. I would have hauled ass, more ass than I hauled trying to save myself, which is an impressive thing. By feeling like I should have died, I’m invalidating what they and Houston and JPL and NASA did to save me.

I’m also feeling guilty because if even _one single thing_ went wrong, they would have all died trying to save me. My feelings on my self-worth may vary, but I know I’m not worth _that_.

But NASA didn’t fuck up the probe, they didn’t fuck up rescuing me, and I’m not dead on Mars. Hermes is in good health and except for one awkward cooling issue, everything is fine.

I’m sick to my stomach.

I’m always sick to my stomach.

Although shit, this time it’s real. I’m really going to vomit.

I launch my aching body out of the chair and stumble over to the counter, where I rip out a Medium Sized Flexible Container and empty the contents of my stomach into it. The force of my body vomiting is huge, my stomach curling over where I swear to God I can feel my newly healed ribs trying to open my intestines, and it’s at moments like this that I think that it would have just been better if _that_ _fucking antenna had just killed me._

But it’s over in a second, and afterwards I feel better.

My first reaction is frustration. I didn’t throw up a single damn time on Mars, and of course I do within a month on board the Hermes, the place that is supposed to be my safety and rescue. Just figures.

Beck’s going to be upset when he finds out I’m going through withdrawal. I could squirrel this away into the trash, if I really wanted to hide it, but I don’t really want to. I’m a victim of starvation, and if Beck doesn’t keep a close eye on my health I could die on the Earth Descent Vehicle (EDV) or I could die before we even make it there. I’m not going to protect my dignity at the cost of my health, especially not given what the entire world went through to keep me alive.

I hit a button on the wall, to activate the Hermes local radio. “Beck, help,” I rasp, throat scratchy from stomach acid.

Beck flew into the rec room soon at top fucking speed (I kept my eyes on the door so no one startled me), and the entire crew was hot on his heels. Perhaps I should have been a little more illustrative, I think, as they literally all bump into each other on the way in.

I held up my little bag of sick, already sealed. “I threw up, sorry, should have explained further,” I rasp, still catching my breath.

“Jesus, Watney, what happened?” Beck said, panting.

I sank into the chair, and put my head in my hands. “Don’t get wound up, I know what’s wrong with me.”

“So what’s wrong?” he asks, still breathing hard.

I now realize I wasn’t hiding this because NASA was going to punish me, or I wasn’t going to be able to get a job, or whatever excuse I cooked up.

No, I was hiding this because I was ashamed, because I don’t want anyone else to think of me differently. I don’t want the crew to really realize how fucked up I am, how fucked up Mars made me, the fucked up shit Mars made me do, don’t want them to realize they left Mark Watney on Mars and picked up a stranger in his place.

I realize that now, because the idea of telling them feels like swallowing stones.

“I wanted to come back and have things be the same as they were,” I say to myself, because I hadn’t kicked the habit of talking to myself yet and hadn’t really even applied any energy toward it.

I also don’t want to tell them because they’re going to ask _why_. I don’t want them to know how close I was to giving up, how _often_ I was going to give up. It’s all going to come out, too. Because they’ll ask why, and I’ll have to explain, and the answers will lead to more questions and answers with more questions. And once they know the truth, the full truth, my dreams of everything going back to normal are going to shatter like glass.

I don’t want them to realize that the guy they picked up _wasn’t fucking worth it._

“What?” Lewis said blankly.

I rubbed my face harder. Now or never, Watney.

A rattling sigh. “I’m going through opiate withdrawal.”

I didn’t look at their faces, kept my head in my hands, because I’m a fucking coward.

“Because you were addicted to opiates?” Beck was already whirring into doctor mode, I could hear it in his voice, feel it in the air.

 _Why else would someone go through opiate withdrawal, Beck?_ “What kind?” was his follow-up after a beat.

“Vicodin,” I supplied.

“Oh thank God,” his relief was audible. “Morphine withdrawal can kill you.”

Morphine can kill you too, that’s why I was saving it.

“Why?” came Johanssen’s voice. Compassionate, or she’s disappointed in me. I can’t tell, don’t want to tell.

This is really the part I didn’t want to explain. I’m slumped in a chair, still looking down, because I’m still a fucking coward.

New Mark Watney Personality Trait: A Fucking Coward.

“It started because of my back. I hurt my back hauling dirt into the Hab for the potatoes, and I didn’t have time to heal. I needed to get them growing or I was going to die. And then I had to haul gigantic boulders as ramps or ballast for rover modifications more than a few times, and each time my back just got worse. Eventually, it got to a point where it was hurting even when I was just laying down. But there was nothing I could do. And then I had to hunch down in my fucked-up rover for hundreds of Sols, and I had to lift the solar panels every day. And then the rover flipped, and I had to put it right. The pain was really bad, but it had to be done. Then I had to modify the MAV, and lift those god-awful hull panels that were 400kg, and everything hurt so fucking bad, but it had to be done.”

Part of me wanted to leave it at that, and another part of me wanted them to dig further and find out it was just as much because of -

“Was that the only reason?” Beck’s voice, clearly compassionate. I bet he was chosen for this mission because of his Open and Honest attitude or whatever his fucking MBTI quiz revealed.

“No,” the word was out of my mouth before I could stop it. Fuck my loose tongue.

He thrust his hand out, clearly satisfied, silencing the conversation. “Okay, we can and will have this discussion in the lab, I want to get some non-opiate painkillers in him and get him on an IV.”

Beck started helping me up. I grit my teeth against the pain, the hissing noise of my breath drawing Beck’s attention.

“You’re in agony, Watney, why didn’t you say anything?” he asked, half admonishment, half concern.

“I’m used to it,” I panted, as he pushed me up the ladder. I mean, this _was_ worse than usual, but by the end everything on my body hurt so much that it just didn’t fucking matter. None of it fucking matters.

Everyone else was behind me at this point, so when Beck lifted me, I couldn’t see the horrified faces I’m sure they made.

Beck’s professional voice was a miracle. “Well, I wish you would have told me sooner, I could have made this easier for you. For instance, giving you anti nausea medication. That’s why you haven’t been eating, isn’t it?”

Yes, it was, and really, I am starving underneath this acidic stomach. “I’d love that.”

“I anticipated a lot of health problems based on what NASA told me, but I gotta hand it to you Watney, you surprised me with this,” he laughed, laying me down on my bed. “All right, the rest of you lot, get out.”

Martinez was the first to protest. “But -”

“I’ll talk to him alone about the more sensitive aspects of this.”

“No, no,” I found myself saying again. _Fuck_ this attention seeking, loose tongue that says whatever it fucking wants. “Stay, they’ll just hear it secondhand from you anyways.”

Beck looked at me with sympathy. “You know I wouldn’t breach your confidence.”

“Yeah, but…” You’re my family, I love you all so much. I want you to know. But you don’t feel the same way, I don’t want to tell my story, and you definitely fucking won’t after I tell you my story. “It’s fine, Beck.”

God, I just don’t want to suffer anymore. Maybe once I’m on earth it will be easier to put it all behind me.

Beck busied himself with the IV, while they all looked at me, trying with various success to keep the pity off of their faces. Except for Lewis, who every time something happened to me, looked like she wished it was happening to her instead.

“This is not your fault,” I repeated tiredly, and Lewis shifted her stance guiltily, weight moving from one foot to the other.

“Okay,” Beck said, sighing. “From what you’ve said, it sounds like you were taking a lot. How much is that, exactly?”

I flinched as he stuck the IV in my arm. I’m surprised he found a vein at all. “I don’t know. I don’t remember how many bottles there were at the beginning, but I was down to the last one at the end.”

“We can look that up,” Beck supplied.

“So, uh… I developed a resistance. I used to just take half a pill every once and a while, but once and a while turned to frequently, then to a pill a sol… I was up to three or four a sol by the end, I think.”

Everyone else is failing to keep the horror off their faces to varying degrees, except Beck, who is a doctor and can keep a straight face during the apocalypse. “Do you happen to know what those dosages were?”

I don’t remember, but I hold up my fingers to indicate a size, and the fact that my fingers are a few millimeters apart seems to shock Beck for a moment before his doctorly mask snaps into place.

“I’ll just look it up later,” he mumbles tiredly, scratching notes into his tablet. He gets up and starts digging through drawers, not bothering to explain what he’s doing. I think I disturbed him.

“Have you had any desires or acted on any desires to get more, either by asking me or taking them from the medicine?” His voice is completely different, stiff and formal, keeping it together.

“Not to steal, no. I would never do that. I did consider asking, but I decided against it.” I looked down. “Honestly, my plan was just to try and weather this out without letting you guys know. It’s not like I’m gonna die or anything.”

Beck shook his head despairingly. “Opiate withdrawal can _kill_ you, Mark, and you’re not in good condition.” He seemed like he wanted to lecture me more, but something held him back.

“I order you to let us know of any other medical issues, Mark, no matter how minor you think they are,” Lewis said, voice harsh. “Your judgment is compromised.”

Something in me flares with irritation. “I survived 549 sols alone, Commander. I’m not incapable.”

“But you are on this ship now, and I’m your Commander again,” she said, growing more frustrated. “Follow my orders.”

I roll my eyes, but say “Yes, commander.”

She continues to stare me down.

“I will!” I say, holding my hands up. “I told you yes, and I will.” What the hell is she accusing me of? Lying?

On second thought, maybe that’s a fair accusation, given that I hid this in the first place.

That seemed to be enough, and her gaze lightened up.

A few seconds pass in awkward silence. The rest of them are just looking at me, eyes wide. Martinez is speechless, and part of me thinks that’s funny, but I don’t comment on it.

“I’m not like, some drug addict,” I say, defensively. “I didn’t do this for fun.”

“We’re not judging you,” Beck said easily, still digging around. He looks at the crew and I can’t see his face because his back to me, but after a glance at him they work to adjust their faces to something less alarming.

“We’re concerned,” Johanssen says slowly. “You… you said you didn’t do this just because of your back.” Martinez and Vogel stand behind her uncertainly. Or rather, Martinez looks uncertain and strained, and Vogel is just watching the scene unfold, eyebrows pinched slightly.

Yeah, I did say there was more to it, but the moment passed and now they’re standing there judging me and so I’m in _no_ mood. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

“We actually do, at least with me,” Beck said, turning to me and hooking up lines to my IV. “I need to asses your mental condition.”

I roll my eyes. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to say anything. I don’t want to be treated like I’m going to crack up.” Nevermind that I already have cracked up, but they don’t know that yet and I’d like to hold on to that. If I can put myself together before they notice, then all the better.

“But you’re not doing well, either,” Beck said. “Your sleep is disturbed, your eating is irregular, and you spend great swaths of time avoiding speaking to us or being in the same room as us. You….” He sighed, and his doctor attitude fell. “Dude, you just… leer, outside our doorways, and if we try and invite you in, you awkwardly brush us off and run away. You can barely even hold a conversation. I’m not saying you’re crazy, but you’re not doing all right. Don’t lie to us and pretend you are.”

All my delicately built walls come apart, and suddenly I can’t fake it anymore. I lean back into the bed, and the pain is searing through my muscles right now. I’m just so fucking tired. “No, I’m not okay.”

They all look at me, waiting patiently for me to continue. _Oh look, Watney’s finally opening up,_ I think, voice a sneer. I can’t fake it anymore, but I’m not in the mood to ‘open up,’ either.

“I don’t want to talk about it, but you’re right, I’m not okay,” I reiterate.

“Mark,” Johanssen says, and she has the fucking gall to look _hurt_.

“Don’t ‘ _Mark’_ me,” I snap. “I don’t owe you an explanation.” The rational part of me says that since they came and rescued me, they _are_ , but I ignore it.

Johanssen opens her mouth again, eyebrows pinched, but Lewis says “Johanssen!” and she closes it quickly.

There’s a couple minutes of tense silence, where everyone looks between everyone else.

I sigh, exhausted. “I wanted everything to be the same when I got back, and it’s _not_ ,” I say, some sort of paltry explanation. “For 543 sols I dreamed of nothing but getting back to the Hermes, Earth, and everything just going back to normal. But it’s been 18 sols - days, sorry,” I rub my face. “It’s been 18 days and it’s not, and it’s not going to.”

“What’s wrong?” Johanssen asked. “Tell us what’s wrong, and we can fix it.”

“You can’t,” I say, sitting up and ignoring my searing back. Man, Mars did wonders for my pain tolerance. “You can’t fix it because _I’m_ what’s wrong. You…” I gestured around at nothing in particular. “I’m not the Mark Watney you left behind. The Mark Watney you left behind died Sol 6. I’m some other guy. I have the same face and the same name, but…” I shake my head. “I’m a different guy.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Johanssen said, sitting down next to me. “One of the first things you did was give Martinez shit about his piloting, and that sounds like Mark Watney to me.”

I smile a little. “That was habitual.”

“But what is more Mark Watney then habitually making annoying comments?” Vogel supplied.

“You have a point,” I chuckled. “But… I’m really not the same guy. I’m not. I’m me, I would know.” I sigh, rubbing my face. “Guys, I don’t want to do this” I wave my hands between all of us “right now. I just want Beck to give me some meds and make me fall asleep and wake up after this is over.”

“That, I can help you with,” Beck said. “Did you take any benzodiazepines while on Mars?”

“What?” I ask blankly. I imagine that means ‘no.’

“Good,” he responded. “They’re a completely different class of addictive medications, make anxiety go away and make you fall asleep.”

“I could have used that,” I said. “Wait, I did take sleeping pills, they were called… Hold on, it was months ago… something with a t… t-r-e? T-r-a?”

“Trazedone,” he supplied. “Not the same thing, but it wouldn’t matter since it was months ago. I’m glad, because being asleep for three days will do you some good. I know you’ve already been sleeping a lot, but you need to relax.”

“You can do that?” I asked.

Beck smiled. “Most people going through opiate withdrawal suffer through it awake, but the Hermes is a well-stocked pharmacy, so I can sedate you, and anyone who can stop me is 120 million miles away. I’ll keep you so knocked out you won’t even dream.”

I lean back into the puffy pillow that someone produced for my lab-bedroom. “Thank God.”

He pressed the vial into the IV, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 712

Watney fell asleep almost instantly, eyelids drooping and falling shut. Beck poked him a couple times to check that he was really out.

“Okay gang,” Beck said. “I’d like someone to be sitting with him around the clock, so that there’s always an eye on him in case something goes wrong. Who wants to take first watch?”

Everyone stands silently and stares at his battered body.

“I can,” Vogel murmurs, after a moment.

“Addicted to Vicodin,” Lewis repeats, voice empty.

“Hey, hey,” Beck said, now a little frustrated. “Settle down. You heard the man; he didn’t steal any from me, he hasn’t used any since he got on board. It’s not like he’s Dr. House.”

“And even if he was,” Vogel said, “We left him on Mars. It’s a miracle he didn’t kill himself.”

“It’s not a miracle,” Lewis said. “It’s because he’s strong.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the lab.

_Stronger than any of us._

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 713

I drift in and out of consciousness, aware of nothing but burning, searing pain.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 713

Beck and Johanssen found themselves in Watney’s lab, standing over his broken body. It was still too obvious, how starved he was, how damaged he was after a 12g launch in an already beaten and starved body.

“I’m so fucking glad we can sedate him,” Beck said.

Watney was sweating bullets, skin flushed. He was tossing and turning in the bed, flinching and groaning with every movement. It didn’t even look like he was unconscious, because his face was twisted in pain and his hands tore at the blanket in his grip.

“Why wouldn’t you have been able to?” Johanssen asked.

“Sedatives are addictive, and no one wants to give an addictive substance to an addict,” Beck said. “Also, usually people go through withdrawal in outpatient, so they don’t have the money to be sedated for the whole thing.”

Every few minutes he would jerk, pulling the covers farther around him as his knuckles almost turned white from the strain.

“I thought he wasn’t supposed to dream,” Johanssen said quietly, staring at him.

Beck’s chest hurt. “He’s not.”

—

Alex Vogel  
Mission Day 714

Vogel didn’t publicize his grief the way the rest of the crew did. He did not wander around, teary eyed, gazing after Watney like a lost sheep. But Alex Vogel was grieving.

Watney was still asleep and flushed, arms visibly shaking every so often under the covers. Watney’s sleep was not peaceful, punctuated with moans of pain.

Vogel watched him, and felt his own heart breaking in his chest. There was nothing, absolutely nothing they could do for him. Vogel wished Watney hadn’t made it come to this, wished he’d gotten help from Beck sooner.

Suddenly, Watney’s moaning ratcheted up into a scream of pain, curling tightly into a ball where he lay, shaking hard.

“Beck?” Vogel says, hitting the wall radio. “Something’s changed.” Vogel can see Watney’s eyes moving back and forth, can see his lids moving. “He’s waking up.” Watney begins to thrash, writhing and turning over to the other side.

Beck is in the lab in seconds, rushing over to the bed to look at the IV and vitals monitors attached to his fingertips.

As soon as he gets near the bed Watney jerks forward, eyes open and staring at nothing.

“Mark?” Beck asks. “Mark!”

For one terrifying instant, Watney’s eyes are open and staring right at Beck. Then they slam shut as his scream doubles in intensity, hands clutching at his legs as he falls back into bed.

Beck pulls a syringe from the drawer, frantically empties it’s contents into the IV. Soon Watney’s screaming falls back into moans of pain, and his thrashing quiets down into jerking, then to nothing.

Beck’s standing over Watney, eyes wide, panting hard, looking devastated.

“Dr. Beck?” Vogel asks, his own heart beating wildly. “Did he wake up?”

“I sure fucking hope not,” Beck says. “The guy’s suffered enough.”

He stares at Watney for a moment, then trudges from the room, leaving Vogel with Watney’s broken body once more.

Vogel wished there was something, _anything_ , they could do.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 714

I can’t claw my way to the surface.

Everything on my body is burning, I can feel myself screaming but I can’t see anything. My hands grip the blanket, I can feel my hands twisting it. I can feel my mouth is open, I can feel myself screaming. Everything is burning.

For a moment I open my eyes, see Beck standing over me and I open my mouth to ask for _help_ but all that happens is a noise tears through my throat as I fall backward into unconsciousness.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 715

For the first time in a couple days, I wake up conscious enough to consider opening my eyes and talking to people. But I find that my limbs are too heavy to move, so I’m stuck laying here in the dark. My limbs are still burning, burning less.

Fear tugs at my heart, my heart starts beating wildly in my chest. I can’t move my limbs, I’ve been drugged, I’m trapped. I _have_ been drugged, by Beck, and I can’t make it stop.

Before my panic unfolds, I’m dragged into sleep again.

—

A couple hours later, I return to consciousness, pain less burning and more aching soreness. I can’t quite get up, not yet, but I manage to stay awake long enough to clumsily roll over. My arms thank me for the relief.

—

Another couple hours, I can wake up long enough to move my arms under the pillow in a way that I can prop myself up on top of it. My muscles are aching with soreness, and it’s a satisfying feeling.

You know, I don’t feel very rested. I wonder if I actually slept. Probably not, because opiate withdrawal is awful. I have blurred memories of screaming in pain and feeling like I’m on fire, but they’re only a couple seconds long. Thank God for that.

Before I can think on it too much, I’m asleep again.

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 715

Johanssen was sitting in the lab chair, typing furiously on her laptop as she always was. Watney was asleep next to her, lying still and quietly on the cot. His sleep quieted down about 12 hours ago, and Beck had stopped giving him the sedatives and was allowing him to wake up on his own.

Johanssen was keeping an eye out for when he began to wake up, wanting him to wake up alone so that he didn’t feel smothered by the crew.

Watney mumbled in his sleep, clumsily moving the pillow underneath himself, and Johanssen took that as her cue. She snapped her laptop shut and bounced quietly out of his lab.

“Knock knock,” she said at the door to the rec room. “Watney’s waking up.”

“Good,” Beck said. “He should finally be feeling better.” He snapped his laptop shut and bounced away. “Gonna go tell Lewis, and everyone else.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 715

It’s 14:00 before I’m finally able to pry myself up off of the floor. What the hell was in those meds? Doctors are psycho, man.

I feel sort of euphoric, too. I don’t have any anxiety right now, which is fucking _insane_. I didn’t think I was that anxious, but in it’s absence my entire body feels light and relaxed like I’m laying on a cloud. No, it feels like I’m laying in a summer field on a perfect summer day, the cool air against my face. I haven’t felt this good in a _decade_ , let alone since I got to Mars.

Beck did say this medication treats anxiety; I suppose it’s still in my system. Although, these meds make me feel stupid and sleepy, so they’re not all upside.

I sort of float-skip to the rec room to find Johanssen sitting there alone on her laptop, doing some sort of computer-science work I’m sure is very important.

“Allow me to distract you, lady Beth,” I say with a flourish, bending down as I enter the room. Yeah, these meds have me in a good mood.

“Mark!” She exclaimed, smiling. “Feeling better already?”

“Beck put me on some wild meds,” I admit, grinning foolishly. “Everything still hurts but that’s fine, I guess. I guess he’s taking pity on me, because he keeps getting me high.”

Johanssen laughed, already looking back at her computer screen.

“Whatcha doin’?” I sauntered over to sit down.

She sighed, an aggravated sigh. “NASA crap. We’re engaging in unplanned space travel, so they want updates on everything every ten seconds.”

I nod sagely, sitting down across from her and resting my head in my arms. “I’m familiar with that. “Mark, how’s the water reclaimer?” “Fine.” Forty three minutes later, “Mark, how’s the water reclaimer?” “It’s been an _hour_. It’s still fine.” “What about the Hab?” “Still inflated, _obviously_.” “How about the Oxygenator?”” I shake my head. “NASA folks get their panties in a bunch really easily.”

“They were up your ass too?” she laughed. “They keep making me running tests on the tarnished cooling vanes. We have literally no way to fix them, but they keep having me test them two or three times a day. They’re holding a steady rate of decay, a rate that we can get home easily within, I might add.”

I shrug. “I know what it’s like. I had to take apart the water reclaimer once every hundred sols to clean minerals out of the piping, because the soil added minerals to the air. They always told me not to do it, but never really provided a viable alternative.”

“To be fair,” Johanssen said, “I’ve seen some of that communication. You were not being easy to work with.”

I rolled my eyes. “They were the ones being difficult. I’d survived 200 sols on my own, and by that point I’d gotten blown up _and_ made 600L of water. I felt equipped to service a machine.”

““Your mothers are prostitutes, and your sisters too?”” she quoted at me.

I grinned widely. “They were micromanaging my plants. My plants! I’ll have you know I was the planet’s best botanist!” I’m flourishing a pointed finger at her.

She rolled her eyes at me this time.“Okay, Watney. You should get that on a t shirt.”

“It won’t make much sense if I say it on Earth,” I said. “And I can’t say Mars’ best botanist, ‘cause that’s not funny.”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said idily, clicking around on her computer.

I look around the rec room, kicking my legs. “I’m bored.”

She looked at me blankly. “You’re on a billion dollar spaceship. I’m sure you can find something useful to do.”

I’m being a big whiny baby, so I groan in her direction. I’m actually not that bored, I’m thoroughly enjoying the fact that everything is okay right now.

Well, I’m starving, my arms are sore, my back still hurts, everything hurts, but the dark hole in my chest is gone for right now and the anxiety that twists me inside out is gone too and that’s _fucking amazing_.

“I need food!” I declare, getting up. “And I want meat.” I pull open a drawer that has meat-based foods, and steal one of Vogel’s sausage breakfast packs.

“He won’t like that you’re taking those,” Johanssen says as I prep the food.

“I don’t care,” I say, already on the way to shoving the food in my face.

Beck wanders into the room. “Well, look whose already feeling better!”

“You got me high, that’s why I feel better,” I said in between mouthfuls of food. I never even sit down to eat, just standing near the food drawers eating at the counter, like my dad did whenever the game was on.

“You won’t be high long. If you’re awake then the drugs will be gone inside the hour.”

The idea of being without this feeling unsettles me. “Can I have more?” The words are out of my mouth before I censor them. “No, wait, I guess not, because I’m a filthy addict, huh,” I say gamely, trying to recover.

I didn’t mean it in a bad way, but Beck’s eyebrows pull together in a sort-of sad way anyways. “I bet NASA wouldn’t object to some sort of medication.”

Well, NASA ain’t gonna approve any more medication tonight. I’ll have to create an excuse to hide as they wear off. I don’t want to be around anyone when the misery closes down on me again.

But for now, for right now, I feel good. I’m going to cherish that. “Whatcha doin?” I ask him.

“Trotting around after you,” he says, sitting down with a stack of papers.

“What are those?” I ask nosily.

Beck sighs, waves the folder. “Reports on you, actually.”

“Me?” I ask. “Is it that medical team Dr. Keller had micromanaging me on Mars?”

“The same,” Beck says. “This time it’s a report on all the scary things withdrawal can do.”

“Can I read it?”

Beck shakes his head. “No. It won’t do you any good. It’ll probably just make you anxious.”

“I’m always anxious, who cares.”

Beck tilts his head at me, exasperated. “Mark.”

“Can I read any of the reports about me?”

His response is curt, like an annoyed parent. “No.”

I make a whiny sound in response.

“Mark, they’re just filled with disaster scenarios. We are just going to handle problems as they come up, not spend time worrying about all that could go wrong.”

“But wouldn’t it be better for me to be prepared?”

Beck rolls his eyes. “You know how NASA reports are, dude. If it could technically happen, they list it as a risk. They’re not, like, really likely.”

I frown. “Yeah, but really unlikely risks tend to happen to me.”

“You haven’t hallucinated anything yet, and that was considered within the realm of likely.”

I open my mouth to tell him that I did, a lot, but the words die in my throat. That stopped for the most part after they picked me up. Or maybe it didn’t, I don’t remember. I pop a bite of food into my mouth instead.

“Mark?” Beck asks, and I shrug.

“What?”

“You zoned out,” Johanssen supplies.

Haha, little do they know that this time I didn’t. “I do that, like, every ten seconds. I only really hear every third sentence someone says to me.”

“We should get you high more often, you’re being far more helpful than you usually are,” Beck comments. “Any other insights into your mental health you’d like to share?”

I put more food in my mouth, before I say something stupid.

The moment passes, and Beck and Johanssen look back down at what they’re doing.

I get up and bounce to my lab, before the drugs wear off and before they can ask me any nosy questions.

—

The come down from these drugs is awful. A long, slow, horrible side backward out of peace and relaxation back into chest crushing pain.

I spend the next hour laying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling. I wonder if it will ever stop.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 717

So, post withdrawal, Beck made me do Dr. Shield’s psych assessment. It was less bad than I thought it would be.

—

**Earlier That Day**

The Ares III team got a psychiatrist assigned to them. Every leaving trip did. The psychiatrist analyzes all the candidates, paired us for our group, trained us on how to work together, and did near-constant assessments on everything they could think of. We were all required to take an entry psychology course, where we were briefed on the major categories of psychiatric conditions and how likely it was that we’d get them from space, and how to cope if anyone on the crew did.

Our psychiatrist, Dr. Shields, was nice. I appreciated her pragmatism when she was working with us, and how frank she was in explaining the risk factors of space travel on mental health. She laid it out honestly: we were probably gonna have depression and anxiety and existential terror after space, even if everything went perfectly well. We’re astronauts, we’re stupid, we agreed to the trip anyways.

It was a miracle she could be warded off for a month, but I knew that eventually her assessment would find it’s way to me, which is how I found myself in front of my laptop with a chat to Dr. Shields.

 _“Don’t worry, be fully honest with her,”_ Beck told me earlier. _“All they can do is make recommendations. We’re in space, what are they going to do?”_

 _“Institutionalize me when I’m back?”_ I remember retorting snippily.

The first message from Dr. Shields arrived.

SHIELDS: Dr. Watney. It’s good to talk, we haven’t spoken in a while.

SHIELDS: I know you don’t want to do this, so I’ll get through it quickly. Answer all questions with a yes or a no, with as much information as you feel comfortable providing. If I need more detail, I’ll ask follow-up questions. There’s a whole hospital full of doctors who want to study you, but my job is just to make sure you make it to Earth in one piece.

I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I wasn’t eager to have my experiences be part of the public domain just yet, a fate I knew was headed my way whether or not I wanted that.

HRM: I’d like to get to Earth in one piece too.

SHIELDS: Let’s just dive in. Dr. Beck said you were suffering from anxiety, having trouble sleeping from your anxiety, having recurring nightmares from your anxiety. Correct?

Ugh, this was going to take a while.

HRM: Yes. Well, sort of - the nightmares are not from anxiety.

SHIELDS: Noted. Are you having any worries about your body or personal health?

HRM: Not really, Beck is taking great care of me.

SHIELDS: Have you had any anxiety about talking to your crewmates?

I’m ashamed of this, but I know it’s in my best interest to be honest. She’s here to help. She gave me assignments on Mars, but she never asked me questions like this. Guess they didn’t want to get me down when I was ten seconds away from killing myself.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: What do you fear from talking to your crewmates?

My hands type out my response slowly.

HRM: That they will take my feelings personally. That they will make me talk about Mars.

SHIELDS: Has this caused you to be nervous in their presence?

HRM: Only a little. When Mars comes up.

SHIELDS: Do you find yourself suffering repetitive thoughts?

Ha ha, oh boy.

HRM: Do I ever.

SHIELDS: Do you take action on them?

I know what OCD is, I’ve seen television, and I think obsessively checking Hermes performance logs every half an hour probably counts, and that’s just for starters.

HRM: Yes. I check and recheck the Hermes condition reports at least fifteen times a day.

SHIELDS: Are you having short term memory problems? For instance, do you sometimes find yourself talking to the crew, completely unable to remember what you were talking about?”

Am I? Yeah, definitely.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: Please elaborate.

HRM: When I’m working, I lose focus really quickly. I catch myself just staring at the computer screen a lot, and I totally forgot what I was doing. I can’t keep calculations in my head, or can’t remember what I’m reading while I’m reading it.

SHIELDS: Do you sometimes have the experience that your body is not your own, or that you’re outside of your own body watching yourself?

The question is weird, I know the question is weird, but it strikes me right in my heart.

HRM: Yes.

She doesn’t respond for twenty minutes.

I’m getting nervous. I want to tell _someone_ , so I tell her.

HRM: Sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in my body, and can’t move. That I’m just watching it move, like a spectator.

Her response comes exactly 14 minutes later, swift.

SHIELDS: Do you ever feel disconnected from your own thoughts, or disturbed, as if they aren’t your own?

Sometimes my thoughts echo in my head, loudly, intrusively. It’s my voice, my thoughts, but dark, like… Hearing it always makes me shiver.

HRM: Yes.

It’s a solid twenty minutes again before she sends her response. I’m beginning to get worried, who is she going to share this with? What is she going to tell Beck to do based on this?

SHIELDS: Are you more agitated and frustrated than usual?

HRM: Usual for Mars? Or usual for two years ago? Because honestly both are useless.

SHIELDS: Point taken. Are you suffering from guilt?

That panged hard in my chest.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: Does this guilt cause you frustration and affect your behavior?”

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: Do you find yourself taking more risks? Or acting recklessly?

HRM: There hasn’t been any opportunity on Hermes, but if Mars is anything to go by, then yes.

SHIELDS: Can you elaborate?

HRM: I used the RTG to make a bath.

I wonder if she knows the significance of that, because she doesn’t comment on it.

SHIELDS: Are you sad a majority of days?

Understatement of the century.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: Do you fantasize about hurting yourself?

Oh, now we’re getting into dangerous territory. This is something they’d lock me in the restraint chair over, and that’s _not_ how I want to spend this flight back.

But equally much, I do not want to lie to the doctor who prepped us all for this trip, is nice, and is currently my only line of defense against NASA.

HRM: Yes. But I would never act on it.

SHIELDS: Why? How do you know?

I struggle with how to word this.

HRM: Because it’s… leftover. From Mars. Not related to my situation now.

It’s the blackness in my chest, it makes me want to claw my own skin off my arms. Depression’s a bitch, makes me feel like I’m actually already dead and that actually killing myself would just be correcting what amounts to a mistake. I woke up every sol and went to bed every sol fighting the temptation to stab a knife into the Hab canvas and just explode, get it all over with. But I haven’t had any urges to destroy the Hermes, and I assume that I’m going to stop wanting to tear the skin off of my own face soon enough.

Thank god, that answer satisfied her.

SHIELDS: Dr. Beck tells me you recently went through opiate withdrawal. Have you felt an urge to use any sort of drug since then?

Like, a little, some, but not enough that I feel I should mention it.

HRM: No.

SHIELDS: Has it been hard for you to enjoy what once made you happy?

That one panged against my hollow chest.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: What are these self injurious impulses?

Okay, so we’re back to that. I look down at my hands and wind them together. Transitory, is what they are, because I’m saved and I’m literally not going to act on them.

HRM: Irene, I promise, it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to act on them, really. I promise not to hurt myself.

SHIELDS: Don’t worry, Mark, you’re in no danger of the chair. Just looking for ways to make your time on the Hermes easier, so that you’re not riddled with intrusive thoughts or self-injurious impulses all day.

But a message comes in a moment later, and thankfully she’s dropped the subject.

SHIELDS: All right Mark, the fun ones. Are you seeing or hearing things that aren’t there?

Well, here we go.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: When?

HRM: All the time, on Mars. Sounds of people moving in another room, like the crew was right around the corner. Now, sometimes - just for like, a few seconds - I’ll see something from Mars before it’s gone again.

SHIELDS: Do you know anything about flashbacks?

HRM: Uh, no. That soldiers get them after war. Part of PTSD, I guess, so what it says on the tin.

SHIELDS: Flashbacks range from intrusive thoughts and feelings about the trauma all the way to losing touch with reality and believing that you are reliving the trauma. The difference between that and a hallucination is that you believe you’re in the actual trauma, not a made up experience. Would you say what you’re experiencing are flashbacks?

HRM: I don’t feel qualified to make a judgment call, but sometimes I hear the wind from Mars or ringing from explosions when I know nothing is there, or sometimes I feel like I’m on Mars even though I know I’m not.

SHIELDS: Sounds like a flashback. Flashbacks present in a variety of different ways. At first, people may not even know they’re experiencing one, because it just feels like a vivid or intrusive memory, not an entire sensory disconnect.

HRM: Well then yeah, that’s happening to me.

SHIELDS: Any other sights or sounds that aren’t there?

I like it when I can give the good answers to NASA questions.

HRM: Nope.

SHIELDS: Do you find yourself afraid that the crew is going to abandon you, emotionally or otherwise?

I’ve been over this one a thousand times in my head. Where would they leave me? Where would they even go? Nevertheless, I know my answer.

HRM: Yes.

SHIELDS: Does this affect your behavior around them?

HRM: Not a lot.

SHIELDS: Does it affect your mood on a regular basis?

HRM: Yes. I’m overanalyzing everything they say these days.

SHIELDS: That’s to be expected.   
SHIELDS: That was all, Dr. Watney. You’re free to go.

I know she’s probably walked away from the computer now, but I send my last email.

HRM: Wait, so what’s my crazy?

SHIELDS: You have a fairly standard case of PTSD, as I know you know. Your full diagnosis is ‘PTSD with dissociative features.’ You can read more in Beck’s copy of the DSM if you’d like. I’m sure NASA is going to try and micromanage your mental health like they do everything else, but I’ll try and keep them off of you.

HRM: Thanks. What could NASA even do?

SHIELDS: Make Beck drug you to stay asleep? I don’t know. Honestly, Mark, everyone’s really concerned that you’re going to get off the EDV in a state of psychosis, and that you’re going to throw things at reporters or do something else equally bad for press.

HRM: I don’t need to be psychotic to throw things at vulture reporters. They’re already sending me emails chock full of really invasive interview questions. Although I’m flattered that NASA’s so worried about the health of the press.

SHIELDS: Well, I have to go tell NASA that you’re snarking, so you’re doing as well as could be hoped. Safe flight, Dr. Watney.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mark Watney constantly amazes me. At every turn he could be weak, he is strong. He could steal painkillers. He could hide that he’s going through withdrawal. He could conspire to keep the crew out. He could lie to people. He’s fucked up, but he’s capable of putting on a brave enough face to fake out the crew about his condition, but he doesn’t. He just keeps doing the strong thing, over and over and over. He’s honestly my role model.
> 
> \- 5150’d is the police term for a suspect who is psychotic or has otherwise lost his marbles.  
> \- Vogel probably doesn’t know who House is, but he doesn’t think it matters enough to ask about.


	4. Chapter 4

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 720

The 7:00 alarm actually wakes me, and I’m thankful that God let me sleep through the night.

When we landed on Mars, I didn’t really believe in God. I believed that we were just insignificant fleas in the 120kph winds of Mars. But I survived such a staggering amount of improbable circumstances that I found myself with an honest-to-god belief in the supernatural. Very unscientific of me, I know, but Mars changed me, remember?

In other news, my muscles don’t feel like they’re burning from the physical exertion of showering. An upside to being on this side of withdrawal. Sure, I’m still in pain, but the way people are when they’re sore and achy, which is not surprising considering I’ve been in bed for 23 days. It’s not the burning, stabbing pain of opiate withdrawal, nor is it the crushing pain of everything in my body being slammed by 12gs, and that’s enough for me

Breakfast is amazing, too, and heaven forbid, sits in my stomach comfortably. Well, only somewhat comfortably, because Beck is back to force-feeding me an enormous amount of calories (2500, to be exact) to get my weight back up, but too much food is not a problem I’m going to argue about. I don’t eat it all at once; Beck says it’s easier to eat a lot of food if you spread it out over the day.

For the first time since they rescued me, I feel as good as I did before the convertible spaceship ride from hell. Before the spaceship ride from hell I was a starvation victim with chronic pain, so it’s not _top condition_ , but it’s a pretty big fucking improvement. The best I remember feeling in a long fucking time.

“All right Watney, today’s the day,” Lewis said loudly and cheerfully, too cheerfully for this hour of the morning. “Ready to get back to work?”

I hunch over my breakfast, exhausted.

Now that I’m through withdrawal, Lewis is making me work. Like, work on my plants and science, not just these tedious fucking labs. Also I’m being put on a buddy system, meaning wherever I am there’s going to be someone with me. They didn’t explain their motives clearly, but I suspect they think I’m holding more things back from them. Well, it doesn’t take a genius. Can’t wait until they see me dissociate or have a flashback, I’m sure they’ll take that well.

“Yeah, but commander, I’d actually like to start with writing my studies,” I said. “I took a ton of measurements while growing my potatoes and, well, surviving, and I was able to download my logs.” Moving the logs by loading a copy onto the MAV then moving that copy to the Hermes was standard procedure; much more secure than moving a flash drive. “So, I have a ton of data to work from. Those studies will be groundbreaking.”

Hey, I may have left all my marbles on Mars, but at least I’ll get to be immemorialized in my industry. Maybe they’ll name a strain of potatoes after me. I have mixed feelings about that. I never want to see or eat a potato again, but… they saved my life, you know? Those potatoes and I bonded.

Lewis waved her arm. “I know you downloaded your logs. I was going to watch them, but…” She shrugged. “They seemed personal. Honestly, Mark, I don’t care what you do with your time, just as long as you do _something_.”

The days on Mars really drug on, and I can’t imagine what sort of instability I recorded for posterity in those logs. Honestly, right at this second I can’t remember any of it clearly at all. The last thing I remember clearly is Sol 6, and everything between then and now is a pile of sharp, jumbled, confusing memories.

“Vogel, show me the state of my ferns, I want to see how much you destroyed them,” I joked, distracting myself.

As Vogel showed me my plants, I honestly struggled to recall what the purpose of the studies was. The scientific community nailed root growth in zero gravity quite a few years ago. We were looking for ways to plant things on Mars that would repopulate on their own in the harsh atmosphere, with the hope that we could start a ‘garden of eve’ and eventually put the first settlers on it. The first priority (before discovering potatoes would grow, of course) was to find plants that would thrive and spread on their own. Unfortunately that required martian soil to study, so that scientists could create exact copies, and test out all sorts of plants.

The ground mission was to look for evidence of past life on Mars, but NASA had all sorts of things planned for science on the way there and back. Honestly, I think NASA chose me because I’m cheerful and got along with the crew; I was scheduled for literally no real botany during the ground mission because 31 sols just isn’t enough time to grow plants.

One of the tests Vogel was running, I knew, was going to be discovering a way to try and remove sodium perchlorate from martian soil. Perchlorate, on it’s own, is toxic to consume. Acadalia Planitia doesn’t have perchlorate, which is good (another stroke of luck contributing to my survival) or I would not have been able to eat the potatoes I grew. But when heated, perchlorate gives off water and oxygen, which means if we can filter it out of the soil somehow, Martian soil might actually sustain long term plant growth on it’s own.

Basically, NASA wanted to explore plants that could potentially not be harmed by the perchlorate, or genetic modification that would allow them to get the water and oxygen from the soil. Yes, the idea was far-fetched, but genetic modification had come a long way in the last twenty years, and that meant we could develop a martian weed that would not need standing or liquid water to survive. Not only would those improvements make Mars habitable, they could conceivably make extreme environments on Earth habitable, too.

Of course, that wouldn’t fix the problem of not having any breathable air, or bacteria in the soil, but one problem at a time.

From the state of my little ferns, though, it looked like all Vogel did was what was technically necessary to keep them alive. “Come on, man, these things are suffering,” I said, touching the leaves. “They need love.”

Vogel shrugged. “My mother says I have, ah, black thumb. I am tending to your plants because I got all my work done before we found out you were alive,” he said, almost shamefully. “I work when I am stressed.”

“Vogel, it’s okay, I know…” _I know you cared that I died_. “But I’m back, and I can bring these guys to life.” Not that it mattered, because probably Vogel’s treatment invalidated whatever I was studying at the time. The studies were already invalidated because we don’t have martian soil. But that was no reason for these ferns to die. It would give me something to do, anyways. It’s not like I need a study to know something will grow in Martian soil, not anymore.

Honestly, I lack the will to even go through the experiment papers for these. It was only a year and a half ago, you’d think I’d have a better memory for it. Everything before Mars is faded in my memory, as if it’s impossibly far away.

“It’s fine,” I reassured him again. “These little guys will live.”

“Great, now _I_ have the honor of writing the ship reports,” Vogel complained, with a smile. “Dear NASA, we did exactly the same thing we did yesterday. With love, Ares III.”

“P.S. No, Watney hasn’t died yet, but we’re gonna kill him if he doesn’t,” I added.

That made Vogel laugh outright. If I’m not irritating someone into killing me, well, then there’s just no point.

Vogel left to do whatever it is he does, and I sat down next to my ferns and opened my laptop.

_Growing Potatoes On Mars  
A Study in Martian Soil, Crop Health, Fertilization, and Crop Cycles._

I did a lot of stuff with potatoes on Mars, and I’m probably going to have to separate them into multiple papers. It would also probably be prudent to look through the logs and dig for relevant scientific information, but I have little will to rewatch logs of the time I was in hell, even if most of my logs are just rote scientific data.

I start by typing up a general outline of how I remember growing the crops going. I got all the soil, mixed all the shit into it, made the water, doubled crop, made more shit soil, doubled crop again, and then flash froze it all close to yield. Hey, there’s the foundation of another study, the fact that the bacteria survived being flash frozen on Mars.

I’m going to get to a point where I have to look through the logs for hard numbers, but that day is not today. At least I was good about formatting my data; I had a lot of time on my hands and I counted myself as already dead, so the logs had to be formatted so someone other than me could understand them and I had the time to format them. I remember kind of being too crazy to function near the end, though, so I can’t imagine my later logs are worth anything.

I don’t know, I’m barely doing any better right now and I’m functional enough to write ship logs (barely). Which, admittedly, doesn’t take a genius.

On the plus side, I’m alive. Maybe I can make Johanssen look through the logs. No, no, it has to be me, because I’m the one who remembers doing them and would know where to look for information. Google can’t transcribe them, because Google has good voice recognition but it still isn’t fucking good enough for scientific calculations. It is 2037 Google, get a grip. I don’t want Johanssen transcribing them, either, because as Lewis said, ‘they are personal.’”

Well, then, the space-botanical world is just going to have to wait a little bit longer.

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 721

I was sitting in my lab, typing up reports with Beck, my appointed guardian for today. The prideful part of me still whines about being babysat all the time, but the prideful part of me hasn’t had much to do with me since the Sol I had to rehydrate human shit and walk around in it.

“Mark,” Beck said uncertainly. “I hate to bring this up, but we need to start thinking more long term about your treatment.”

“What?” I said, looking up from my paper.

Beck’s looking at me. Speaking to me. Long term treatment, right.

His facial expression is serious, so I pause from my writing and give him my full attention.

“I don’t mean to annoy the shit out of you, and I’m saying this as your doctor,” Beck began, “You’re still not sleeping regularly, and I read Dr. Shields’ write up about your condition. Your body will heal soon enough, but mental health issues can affect you for a lifetime, and I think you should get a step ahead of them.”

This wasn’t something I’d talked to Beck about yet, nor did I really have any intention of doing so. Nevertheless, he’s my doctor. I’ll humor him. “What do you have in mind?”

“I think you should start on an antidepressant,” Beck suggested. “The Hermes has some, since anxiety and depression are common issues for astronauts. We can assess long-term techniques once the meds give you a good hold on your situation. You did ask for meds a while back.”

Yeah, I asked for the ones that got me high, not whatever he’s offering me now. I frowned, dubious of how much good common antidepressants would do me. It felt like my panic eviscerated me daily, and I really doubted little white pills would help me.

But, doctor says. “All right. Just give me whatever you think is best, and I’ll take it.” They probably didn’t have the heavy crazy pills on board, anyways, or they had weird side effects and were scared to put me on them.

“Like that?” Beck was surprised. “Mark, you’re an argumentative patient in even the best of times.”

I shrugged. “I’ve never dealt with something like this before.” And hey, the worst that could happen is that they just don’t work, which is what I expect.

“All right,” he said, scribbling in his tablet. “Don’t worry, I’m done with this conversation. You can go back to your potatoes.”

“My potatoes are on Mars,” I said. “This is their eulogy!”

“You care about them enough to write a eulogy?” Beck laughed.

“They fed me for hundreds of sols, man. Those potatoes are my friends. Were my friends. I had to leave them behind.”

“I thought you hated potatoes now.”

I frown. “For eating, not in general.”

Beck leaned in. “What do you feel when you think of potatoes, Mark?” he asks, laughing.

I think about that for a moment. A confusing range of emotions, most prominent _horrified_ and _grateful_.

Instead of saying that, I just ignore Beck in what I hope is a dignified manner.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 723

We’re all sitting around the rec room table, and for the first time in a while breakfast is a pleasant affair. I didn’t wake up too ungodly early, and everyone’s in good spirits about the day. The fact that I have talked to everyone, every day, for 3 days in a row, seems to have put them in a good mood. I realize that that’s kind of a low bar, but that’s where we are.

Today was sausages, eggs and yogurt that I got in a trade with Johanssen, who likes the breakfast salads but not the yogurt it comes with. Something about the leafy greens or whatever. I can’t imagine leafy greens being any good rehydrated, but she keeps selecting that at least three times a week.

This morning, there is something particular on my mind.

“Good Commander Lewis,” I ask, “Why is your entire music collection disco music?”

“What?” She asked blankly, blue eyes peering up from her meal.

“Why do you only have disco music?” I repeated. “Oh, and before you answer, I have a few theories -”

“Shut up, Watney,” she interrupted.

“- one, you’re a time-traveling NASA agent, which is why you know about NASA policies from the nineties -”

“She’s too attractive to be a time traveler,” Martinez said.

“But that’s why it works!” I respond. “Time travelers are always beautiful woman, haven’t you seen… pretty much anything sci-fi?”

Martinez shrugged, so I continued.

“- two, you’re actually infected with boogie fever but you have to hide your debilitating condition from all of us, which is why you’re always so serious and official -”

Lewis is actively shaking her head now. “Are these complicated theories?”

“- oh, yes,” I assured her. “I had a lot of free time. Three, and this is my favorite, you’re actually part of a NASA experiment to see if extended exposure to disco music will actually somehow make people like it.”

“Did it work?” She asked, now grinning.

I am about to vehemently deny it, but I rethink that position. “Gilbert O’Sullivan and I really bonded.”

Everyone else starts laughing, but her face fell for a minute. “I only have one song by him.” She must remember it’s one depressing song. Nobody else realizes, though, so I just laugh along with them and pretend I didn’t hear her.

“Seriously, though, why disco?” I ask.

She shrugs. “They’re upbeat. Easy to dance to.”

“They’re depressing as shit!” I say. “Yeah, you can dance to them, but you’re dancing about death or breakups or whatever.”

“You asked ‘why disco’ when we met, and when I said because it’s upbeat, you didn’t question it any further.”

“Because I hadn’t actually listened. Now I have.” I turn to the rest of the crew now, addressing them. “Seriously, go read the lyrics of her music. Super depressing.”

“All music is depressing, music is made by depressed people,” Beck shrugs.

“My music isn’t depressing!” Martinez exclaims.

“Martinez, you listen to gospel,” I joke.

He’s immediately on the defensive, and I know what he’s going to say before he says it. “It’s not gospel -”

“- It’s Christian Rock,” I finish. “Yeah, _okay_ , Rick.”

“My music is not ‘depressing as shit,’” Lewis jumps in. “You were stuck with all of my songs, right?”

“Yeah,” I say suspiciously.

“Dancing Queen by ABBA.”

I nod. “Okay, okay, that’s a nice song.” I did indeed dance to it a time or two or ten or ten thousand.

“Mr. Blue Sky.”

I nod again, aggrieved. I listened to that on repeat the day Pathfinder connected with Earth. “Okay, that song is pretty happy too.”

“I Will Surv -”

“Okay!” I hold my hands up. “I surrender. Your music is upbeat.”

Lewis snorts. “I listen to it because my parents did when I was growing up. I never really liked it until adulthood, though. It grew on me.”

“And now I listen to it because you did,” I muse. “And now it’s growing on me. So really, we were _both_ trapped by it.”

Lewis rolls her eyes while Martinez sniggers.

“Growing on you?” Johanssen asks slyly.

I throw my hands up in exasperation. “Yeah. I admit it. Her music grew on me.”

“Dude,” Martinez says, “And you make fun of me for listening to Christian music.”

“Don’t make fun of my problems,” I say. “It’s Stockholm Syndrome.”

I like this; we’re all joking around, I’m mentioning something from Mars, and no one is jumping down my throat with cornering questions or sad little facial expressions. I don’t want to _talk_ about Mars, but I picked up a lot of personality traits there and want to be able to just… be myself.

“If it were Stockholm Syndrome you’d like Mars,” Beck quips.

I don’t know how I feel about Mars. I mean, I hate Mars, fuck Mars. But that’s just a gut emotional reaction - I have no idea how I feel about Mars, or about space travel anymore.

I shrug. “Whatever.”

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 713

I never know if these count as flashbacks, or as dissociating. I read Beck’s little mental health briefing, and I know that both happen to me, but I never know which is which.

It happened today; I was staring out the lab window and forgot I was on the Hermes. Just thought I was on Mars, or the MAV. Got confused. Nothing _happened_ , I was just so sure I wasn’t on the Hermes. I didn’t remember being rescued. I sat that way for a while, I could tell, because when I came to it was _hours_ later.

I just came to, and Martinez was still typing on his laptop, and for all the world he didn’t look like he noticed anything. I probably just looked _really_ zoned out. Thank god he didn’t say anything to me, I can’t imagine what sort of shit would have happened. At best I would have just freaked out for a moment, at worst I would have freaked out for a lot longer than a moment.

I know, _eventually_ , someone is going to catch me at it, and it’s just a matter of time until the dreaded intervention. Then again, Beck knows some of what I told Dr. Shields, so he may have issued a hands-off policy. But I doubt it; hands-off isn’t really NASA’s style.

—

Alex Vogel  
Mission Day 724

It's Vogel whose keeping Watney company today, sitting in the lab typing up study reports while Watney pecks his way through this own papers.

Some days, like yesterday, Watney is verbal, responsive and jokes around like the guy he used to be. Some days, everyone forgets what happened on Mars and they're the Ares III crew again, happy and together.

Other days, like today, Watney isn't all here.

He's hunched over his laptop, eyes drifting in and out of focus, and he stops many times to rub his eyes or stare at the wall unmovingly. He keeps turning his head away from the computer screen to stare at nothing, hands moving across the aluminum table in a jerking fashion.

Alex Vogel is a quiet man, and it's just as well, because if Vogel tried to get his attention he doubted he would succeed.

Occasionally, Watney will start muttering to himself, twitching his fingers as if counting unseen things, tapping the table or snapping his fingers in frustration. Sometimes he slams a hand on the table and Vogel startles, but Watney continues as if he hadn’t noticed what he’d done.

He’ll even occasionally start talking at full volume, dictating the condition or measurements of his plants as if he were speaking to other botanists in the room. Not for long, just a couple of punchy sentences, but enough for Vogel to look up and watch him. Watney doesn’t look at Vogel, just continues pacing around the room staring at the wall.

Vogel wonders if Watney is aware that he's talking out loud, but doesn’t bring his attention to it. He just stays silent and sits in the room if he's needed. They're the ones imposing on him, after all, so Vogel wants to give him as much autonomy and privacy as a man under twenty four hour watch can have.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 726

The rest of this week is playing out normally. I’m trudging my way through The Potato Report, and spend my evenings reading hilarious fan mail people sent me. The data dump to Mars took so long that they screened and only let through important things, so all of the fun stuff I didn’t know about is now getting through because we have a clear view of earth.

Okay, most of it isn’t hilarious, it’s just “I’m so sorry this is happening to you,” and “I hope you escape (presumably written before I, you know, escaped)” and things like that. It’s a nice thought, I guess, but most of them are just getting sorted into an email folder. I don’t want to delete them, though, because people took the time to write them.

Yeah, the data dump allows us access to an email client, so at the very least when the emails they let through come in, I can sort them instead of just deleting them forever. The Hermes is a fully functioning computer, really, except for the fact that it only gets one ping to the network a day.

Some of the emails, though, are actually kind of touching.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 726

**Earlier That Day**

I groan, putting my head in my hands at the rec table. “Oh my lord, I haven’t checked my email yet. There’s literally hundreds of thousands.”

NASA piped me emails, but there wasn’t enough space on the Pathfinder connection to pipe every email that was sent. The Hermes has the same time delay but a _much_ better throughput, so suddenly I found myself inundated with emails. And I know that even these aren’t all the emails.

“Yeah dude, your fans,” Johanssen jeered.

I nod at the computer. “It looks like that; NASA was kind enough to indicate which ones were fan mail. I guess they set up an alternate email for me where people could send emails.” I clicked through a couple of them. “They’re all pretty much the same. ‘I’m sorry this is happening to you,’ ‘Keep fighting,’ ‘You’re an inspiration,’”

“He says that like ‘oh yeah, it’s just another person saying I’m an inspiration,’” Martinez joked.

“Dude, you’re an astronaut, you’re going to go on a talking tour just like the rest of us,” I snarked at him.

Martinez huffed in response. “No I’m not, dude, you went and upstaged all of us. We’re just some astronauts, you’re the guy who colonized Mars.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to upstage anyone. I was the last to egress, I was supposed to be the least impressive of everyone on this trip. I only colonized Mars because I had to.

But something else drew my attention.“What the fuck,” I said. “This one lady is inviting me over to - I am not kidding - ‘reacquaint myself with the human body’ with her.” I narrowed my eyes at the lewd email. “It even has an address and her schedule.”

“Oh ha ha!” Martinez said, throwing his food wrapper at me. “Looks like you’ve got a date.”

“You have no idea if she’s, you know…” Johanssen said critically. “Desirable.”

Vogel nodded sagely. “You never have sex with random internet women, Mark.”

I peered at Vogel. “You sound like you’re talking from experience. Vogel?”

“Do you need experience to know better than to have sex with a stranger?”

My eyes were back on the emails. I was sorting them into subfolders, ‘normal,’ ‘sex’ (because there was more than one lewd sex request), ‘invitations to give a free talk,’ ‘invitations to give a paid talk,’ ‘can we please interview you,’ and…

“Oh my god,” I breathed.

_Dear Mark,_

_I’ve always suffered from clinical depression, and… loneliness. I know that isn’t anything next to what you’re going through, but I just wanted to let you know that watching you go through that… well, I know from experience how much loneliness can make you want to let it all end, and I can’t imagine how alone you’re feeling. But watching you through the satellite photos every day, continuing to fight, is giving me the will to fight too._

_Keep Fighting,_

_Dave Penbury_

“What?” Johanssen asked.

Damn me, my eyes were watering a little too. Some days, the temptation to let it all end was overwhelming. But knowing that my determination inspired someone else to keep fighting, too, made it a little more worth it.

That was immediately chased by concern for Dave. I had a clear goal. ‘Escape Mars.’ What’s Dave’s goal? Will he ever escape his situation?

And of course, there was another one right below it.

_Dear Mark,_

_I have no idea how to say this, or if you’re even going to ever read it, so I’ll say it._

_Don’t kill yourself. I know it’s probably crossed your mind._

_I tried to throw myself off of the SF Bridge, and I succeeded. What they say, about suicide, it’s right; you always regret it once it’s too late. I regretted it as I was falling._

_Obviously, by random chance, I survived. And I know your odds are long, but you’ll never survive if you give up, so Don’t Give Up._

_\- Shannon Bendan_

That one hit me hard, too, my eyes watering at the desk like a child. I was alone on that planet, but Shannon Bendan was sitting at home, imploring me not to give up. Dave Penbury didn’t kill himself, just because I hadn’t either. They might still be alive just because I didn’t give up.

I was sitting there, alone on that entire planet, but apparently I wasn’t actually alone. It wasn’t just the crew, or Houston, or NASA who were with me. It was random people that were watching my struggle, sending me prayers, thinking that ‘if Mark Watney can make it another day, so can I.’

My silence illicited a response from Martinez, who had ran around to the computer to read my emails. “He’s some sort of mascot for depressed people, there’s a bunch of letters saying that if Watney isn’t giving up then they aren’t giving up either,” Martinez sounded over my ear.

One of the first emails I received was from Annie, demanding some sort of public thank you for all the support I’ve gotten. Before, I _didn’t_ want to give it, because most of the emails were speaking requests, phrased something like “if you happen not to die, will you come give an inspirational speech to our organization?” They were callous, and rude, and I didn’t feel like addressing that.

But as for the growing number of people telling me that they didn’t give up because I didn’t give up - well, they deserved an answer.

But what could I tell them? I was never suicidal on earth. It took inhuman, alien experiences to get me to become suicidal. I’m not like some people, people who seem just ‘prone to the darkness.’ I’d never understood it. Honestly, I just thought they were a combination of morbid and weak. That they refused to look on the bright side. Before, I just said ‘if they want to wallow, they can wallow.’

Don’t get me wrong, if it happened to someone I loved, I would have done everything I could to help them get better. But at the core, I thought it was some kind of personal weakness. Now I know better.

It wasn’t the Martian environment that killed me. On Sol 6, I wasn’t saying “I’d rather die than live in the Hab.” No, it was “I’d rather die now than suffer alone.” I’d love to say ‘it wouldn’t have been so bad if I had food and breathable air,’ but I know that if I had been abandoned on a planet as habitable as Earth, the crushing feeling of being abandoned would have still swallowed me whole. It wouldn’t have mattered. If anything, the ridiculous fight against Mars kept me grounded, gave me some sort of purpose, however perverse, in my isolation.

Martinez was continuing to talk over my ear. “I’m a little irritated on your behalf. I mean, I don’t know these people, but I know they didn’t go through 549 days of Mars trying to kill them. They’re, what, suicidal because their wives don’t love them?”

Instantly, I felt defensive. “Back off,” I said to Martinez. “The isolation is what killed me, not the weather.”

He fell silent suddenly, and the atmosphere turned dark. Said ‘what killed me,’ as in, already died. Man, I have to stop saying dark things to them, they’re probably putting together a very maudlin picture of my emotional state. Maudlin, but not inaccurate.

I picked up my laptop, not wanting to suffer the thick atmosphere, and headed back to my lab.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 726

I mean what I said to Martinez. Of all the dangerous things on Mars, the most dangerous was losing hope. I could always MacGyver up a solution to any technology problem, but only losing hope had the power to make my hand turn on myself.

Well, that and airlock explosion. It was only sheer, dumb luck I survived that.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 727

SHIELDS: Good morning, Dr. Beck.

Beck leaned over the laptop, eyes burning from the screen. Twice a week, Dr. Shields had a conversation with him about Watney’s mental condition, and recommended further treatment going forward.

HERMES: I hate these conversations. They make me feel like such a creep.

This was not the first time he had expressed this sentiment to her.

As a field surgeon and biologist, Beck never took more than the required psychiatric courses. Now that Mark was back and everyone had a good description of his condition, he was being given a crash course in how to deal with psychiatric patients.

SHIELDS: You know my response to that. At least on Earth, this won't be your responsibility anymore.

No, Beck thought, I'll hand him over to strangers in a straight jacket. Yeah, okay, a little dramatic, but the point still stands.

HERMES: Continuing as previously reported. Some days, very verbal and responsive, appropriate emotional reactions to things. Other days nonverbal, nonresponsive until second or third prompt. Anxiety, sleep disturbances still present.

SHIELDS: what would you say the trend is?

HERMES: can't say, hasn't been physically stable enough to draw any conclusions.

SHIELDS: keep me posted.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 727

Beck is making me do physical therapy. It’s crap. I know, I’m the one who wanted this before, but now that it’s actually time for the physical exertion I’m just less than excited. No, I’d like to lay in this bed all day and not get up.

But Beck dragged my sorry ass to the fitness room. My 0.4g chicken legs couldn’t hold anything greater than the weight of my own body for about ten seconds in 1g. So, I have the privilege of working with weighted ankle cuffs and shoulder pads until my body can handle supporting more than it’s own weight.

Beck made a comment at lunch today; said he had no idea how my body made it through modifying the Rovers, and MAV, not to mention driving 3500km in a 25km/hr land speed vehicle. Said I was going to make a great report on extended-release adrenaline in the survival instinct. Like those moms who lift cars off their children, except over a longer period of time. Looks like my worst-experience-of-my-life is going to make lots of science interesting. Maybe scientists will pay me to just be myself as an extended study. “I survived an elevated adrenaline dump for over eighteen months.” Man, my amygdala must be good if it could keep dumping adrenaline like that without making me hallucinate (too much). Does that make my brain better than Lewis’s?

No. She’s like that kid that can somehow get great grades, be hot, have a relationship, and an award winning athlete, and still have time to watch entire Netflix series’. Except we’re astronauts, so we are those kids. She is that kid, _for_ those kids. But my brain’s ability to not get mentally ill is better than hers, so that makes me better than her at something. Not going crazy.

So, Beck banished me to my quarters with freeweights, and commanded me to do several yoga-esque exercises daily, and the walking around with the weights for as long as I can bear it. Very specific, means I can shirk off some if I want. But I don’t want to shirk off, or I’ll die on the descent to Earth. That would be an amazingly anticlimactic ending for this story. If I’m going to die, I’d like to be responsible for it.

Sometimes, on a good day like today, I look at the wall of my quarters and get excited. I’ve got pictures up, of everyone I love. I’m on the Hermes. I’m coming back.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 729

Okay, this ship is boring as shit.

We wake up, I endure a little Q&A from Lewis, we all go off to our respective labs, I write about botany and potatoes as much as I can from memory, I dig through the emails I get while Martinez makes fun of the stupid ones with me, go to bed, wake up from nightmare, repeat.

On the way here, we had music and tv shows and one time we even had a dance party one of the nights. Yeah, we got in squabbles about whose music we got to dance to, and whatever, but it was mostly fine. We played board games and we _did stuff_.

The reason we don’t do shit anymore is my fault. I’m way more withdrawn now. I was really, really fucking hoping it was just an adjusting period, but it’s not. I’m not the man I was. I didn’t notice it on Mars because I had nothing to compare it to, but I spend at least half the day sulking in my lab while writing my paper and that’s not showing any signs of letting up.

The crew doesn’t seem to know the extent of my sulking, and that fact relieves me. It’s easier to have a sinking, crushing feeling in your chest when you don’t have to put up appearances for anyone else. When I was alone it just _was_ , but when I’m around the crew I feel on alert, checking every word or look or breath for something that will tip my hand.

I know they’re probably gossiping about me, too, behind my back. ‘Mark’s different, he’s more sullen.’ Well _yeah_ I’m more sullen. Being on a planet, alone… You can’t get through that sort of experience without questioning things. Where is God? What is the point of life? What is the point of me continuing my sad, meager existence on this stupid fucking planet? Habit? What kind of God allows this sort of thing to happen? Does anyone love me? Does anyone even realize I’m alive?

And… I can’t say this to anyone on the ship, but they left me for dead. Not intentionally, and I’m not actually mad at them, but something inside of me feels fundamentally damaged. A wall slammed down between me and them the moment I stepped onboard the Hermes. It just isn’t as much fun to joke around with them anymore. It doesn’t come easily. It isn’t that nice to email my parents, or my friends on Earth, either.

The point is, this is boring. We need to do something to pass the time, because it’s going to feel like a lifetime unto itself if I have to spend the next 182 days this way.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 729

Wake up at 4:27. Think I’m on Mars. Remember. Feel dead in my bed for forty minutes. Get up, shower. Stare at myself in the mirror, consider how gaunt I look. Maybe shave. Brush my teeth until they bleed. Piddle around my lab. It’s 5:30-something. Go to the rec room, select a non-potato breakfast. Spend a lot time preparing it so it’s good.

This morning, I stood for a moment in the rec room and appreciated the fact that Mars was smaller in the window, appreciated for a moment that I didn’t wake up in the Hab. Took in the fact that the floor is not dirt, felt the composite under my feet and thanked God for it. I kind of get why Christians pray before meals now. I wish it didn’t take _Mars_ to teach me gratitude, but what’s done is done.

Sat down to eat breakfast, glad I’m not wearing socks. There’s no dirt under my toes, no dirt under my nails, no grime in between my fingers making me feel like I need to wash my hands for ten years. Only this delicious, potato-free egg-salad-sausage-thing. Every bite is amazing.

The rest of the crew stumbles in around 7:30. I finished breakfast a little while ago, but stayed in the rec room to wait for them.

I immediately open my mouth to chatter at them. “Can we do something fun tonight? I’m bored as shit of The Great Potato Paper, and we haven’t had so much as music on this ship since I got back.”

“I wanted to keep the environment calm for you,” Lewis mumbled into her cereal, still sleepy. “You were in a high stress environment for quite a bit of time.”

I sat up straight. “Yeah, and that was probably the right choice, but now the right choice is to not treat me like glass,” I exclaimed. “So lets turn on the music! Or have movie night! Or something.” My voice was exuberant, to try and spurn them on to action.

Lewis sighed, like she was relieved. “We were worried, but if you’re all hassling us to be more fun, then you must really be doing better.”

I nodded aggressively. I don’t know if I am doing better, but it won’t hurt them to believe that. “Oh believe me, if there were a bar I’d drag you there.”

“I vote movie night,” Martinez said. “We’ve all been wound up since Sol 6, and all of us watching a movie together would be good.”

Sol 6. Sol 6, Sol 6, Sol 6. The words echo in my head.

_I’m holding the syringe of morphine in my hand, the liquid clear in the vial, the resin cold and slick with the antiseptic from my wound. Out the window is the MAV, the empty MAV, the landing struts staring at me._

_“Mark Watney died on Sol 6.” That’s what they’re all saying, on the Hermes, in Houston, all around the world. I’m dead._

_This doesn’t even feel feel like giving up._

_I’m not in control at all as my thumb moves against the injection slide._

_I’m already dead. I am the living dead, I am dead to my crew and I am dead to the world. Mark Watney died on Sol 6, and the guy who is alive right now is just his ghost, drifting around on Mars for 300 more days before he disappears, and no one will ever know._

The memory washes over me, and it’s all I can do not to curl over the table as my abdomen freezes inside of me. I grip the cheap resin bowl with breakfast, and my fingers turn white from the strain. I’ve frozen solid, but no one’s noticed. Fuck, not _here_ , not right now in front of _everyone_.

I’m feeling the feeling all over again, the emptiness, the abandonment, _dead, dead, dead_ , and their physical presence in front of me suddenly seems distant and insignificant.

There’s nothing inside of me anymore.

“Nothing from Lewis’s collection,” I choke out, trying to hide what’s happening. “I’m not watching another thing from Lewis’s collection for the rest of my life if I can avoid it.”

That blackness is crawling up into my throat, into my mouth. My words feel forced in my throat, mechanical and rigid.

Lewis laughed, and the rest of the group laughed too. “I can’t imagine being stuck with nothing but Lewis’s media stick,” Beck said. Their laughter echoes in my head.

My response was quick, rote, and to my ears it sounds like a prepared line. “I can recite every word of every episode in That 70’s show. It was forty years ago, Lewis, you’d think that it would have finally faded from our generation’s consciousness.”

“Not me,” Lewis stated proudly, like that was some sort of achievement.

I go for a smile, remembering to crinkle my eyes to make it real, and it feels like it’s being torn out from inside of me, ripped out of me. “I raided everyone’s laptops, media sticks, personal effects, everything. You all have no secrets from me.”

Johanssen raised her eyebrow.

“Even you, Leather Godesses of Phobos.” My tongue is loosening a little, the blackness fading enough to allow me to breathe, just a little.

She grinned wickedly. “Did you enjoy it?”

“No. It confused the shit out of me. There wasn’t much to do though, so I spent at least 10 hours trying to figure it out.” It’s let up enough to let me breathe, let me take shallow breaths like a drowning man.

It’s freaking me out, how easy it is for me to supply witty comebacks when inside I’m dying.

She grinned, like owning a terrible game was some sort of accomplishment.

“Star Wars,” Martinez said instead. “I bet the famous Mark Watney can get an advance copy.” The folks back home would just _not_ _stop_ making star wars movies.

“I’m not watching a movie about space, either,” I said, finally getting my breath back. “Sorry, but I’m picky. Nothing about space, or aliens, or made earlier than 2000.”

Martinez gave me a look that was downright sassy. “Do you have any suggestions?”

I’m still reeling. “Not really. I’m not much of a movie person. My entire media stick is tv shows and music.”

“We can watch your tv, an episode a night.”

My face fell. “All my TV shows are sci-fi.” Oh my God, I’m going to have to cultivate entirely new taste in tv. All my tv shows are about people surviving on alien planets, and somehow that idea isn’t so exotic to me anymore. My room is covered in Galactica posters (yes, my room is covered in posters, because I’m a child). What do I do now?

Everyone else was ignorant to the pain that caused me. Lewis rolled her eyes.

“Well, the least I can do is play music. We all got copies of our media from the data dump. Anything you prefer?”

I shrugged. I’d talk about hating Lewis’s disco music, but having almost nothing to listen to but that actually made me sort of like it. And frankly, I was as sick of her music as I was of everyone else’s. “Mine?”

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 729

Yeah, I win. We are starting up the old pattern of each week we listen to one person’s music, and this week is my week. I don’t know why we don’t just shuffle it all into one playlist for variety; probably because we’re all weird, super-intense people. NASA probably spent $10,000 in studies and weeks of meetings deciding that it was better for us.

That night, we all ended up watching some ridiculous tv show Johanssen downloaded in the data dump about a woman who got transported back in time from WWII to eighteenth century France. I didn’t want to admit it to her, but the show was sort of catchy. It’s also from 2015, seriously old. What is it with these people and old shows?

We watched the first two episodes, just to get into the hang of it. The woman was married, but back in time her husband’s ancestor (and his literal look alike) was a rapist who had raped the man she was married to in old-timey France. Her back-in-time husband was trying to kill her present time husband’s ancestor, which would make her present time husband never live.

It’s better than it sounds, really.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 730

I felt like I was just watching myself, near the end of Mars. Like I was watching my own body go through the motions, but not an active participant. There were no feelings, or sensations, just an endless black and white movie of my life. I didn’t notice how disorienting it was on Mars, because I was in complete isolation. There was nothing to compare it to. _Dissociation_ , Dr. Shields said.

The music has introduced some normalcy onto this ship. With the music people are dancing, talking up more, and being more social. It’s great, it’s exactly what I wanted. But the sense of a routine, of normalcy, triggered something in me, like everything inside me was just waiting for the dust to settle.

Today, I woke up feeling outside of my own body again.

I had to guide my little body through taking a shower, through eating breakfast and taking the laptop back to the lab. I’m just staring at the wall. I don’t even know who is babysitting me today, but I’m not even pretending to get any work done. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. All day? Ten minutes? Everything feels very far away.

I can see space out the window. What’s out there? Is anyone out there?

Am I alone?


	5. Chapter 5

Crew  
Mission Day 732

It’s midday, and since Watney is still sleeping and eating at weird intervals, they end up taking lunch without him today.

“Has anyone noticed Mark hasn’t annoyed us at all about his birthday?” Martinez said, plopping down at the table with Vogel and Beck.

Johanssen nodded. “I know. Remember last year, he made us celebrate even though the descent was the next day?”

“He loves birthdays,” Beck agreed. “But he hasn’t noticed a single one since we picked him up.”

They all knew how weird Mark was about holidays, especially birthdays. Mark insisted on celebrating everyone’s birthday, everyone, and making sure everyone got a card or memento or a mention.

 _“People like it, even if they say they don’t,”_ he would always say.

Vogel spoke up, quietly. “Perhaps he does not know the date anymore. Perhaps he stopped keeping track.”

The others at the table felt like they’d been drenched in ice. The Hermes had dates but most of the clocks kept track in mission time, and you had to actually bother look up the date if you wanted to know it.

“We have to celebrate his birthday,” Martinez said decisively. “Do we have special food?”

“NASA packed ice cream, just enough for special occasions,” Beck said. “I think it’s for Easter or something, but I’m happy sacrificing it for Mark’s birthday.”

“They didn’t pack cake for him?” Lewis asked. Cake was Mark’s luxury food, his favorite item to have.

“I think they got nervous, decided it was too heavy and packed more rations instead,” Johanssen provided. “Kinda fucked, since he’s the person who most needs luxury foods, but…” she shrugged. “It’s NASA.”

“I agree, lets forfeit Easter ice cream for Mark’s birthday,” Martinez said.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 732

Vogel is the one babysitting me today again. He respects my desire for silence, both of us just typing on our laptops at our own pace. We’ve been sitting at this table silently for hours, and it occurs to me that before Mars, I would have never been able to sit somewhere in silence.

Whenever someone is with me, they take care to sit in my line of sight. I appreciate this; I have a tendency to forget people are there if they are not in my direct line of sight.

“Knock Knock,” Beck says at the doorway. “We have a surprise for you.”

I turn around to find everyone standing at the doorway to my bedroom-lab. Johanssen is standing in the center, and she is holding a gigantic bowl of ice cream.

“NASA didn’t send cake,” she said sadly.

I look between them all, confused. “What’s this for?” I tried to remember, is today a holiday? I don’t know when holidays are. I don’t even know what month it is. All interfaces in the Hermes don’t display clocks or dates, the Hab and the Hermes keep time by mission time.

I’ve also been studiously avoiding knowing the Earth date. Turned it off on all the computers, didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to see exactly how much time Mars stole from me.

“It’s your birthday, Mark,” Beck said quietly. “Happy birthday.”

It’s my birthday.

How old am I?

I know my 42nd and 43nd birthday happened sometime on Mars. That would make me 44.

“I’m 44,” I say out loud, staring at the ice cream in the metal bowl. It’s already starting to melt, vanilla and chocolate together.

If I’d stayed on Mars, with the food I had, I’d be dead by now. “I made it to 44.”

I’m standing now, I become aware, walking slowly toward them and taking the ice cream serving bowl from Johanssen like it’s some sort of holy totem. There’s enough in here for everyone, easily, even if I eat all that my stomach can fit.

“We need to eat it soon or it’s going to melt,” Lewis says, smiling.

Lewis is looking right at me, so is everyone. I’m holding this bowl of ice cream that they made for my birthday, the birthday that I lived to see. I get to turn 44. I’m still staring at the bowl. “I lived to 44,” I say hollowly.

Johanssen steps forward, putting a tiny gentle hand on my shoulder. “You lived.”

I close my eyes now, squeeze them shut, as Johanssen hugs me. “I get to turn 44, guys,” my voice is thick.

“You shouldn’t be so excited about your forties, man,” Martinez says thickly, now hugging me too.

“ _Life’s a gift, man_ ,” I mock, serious and joking at the same time, voice still thick with feeling.

“Eat your ice cream,” Lewis says with exasperation. “Martinez, in the future, try not to ruin nice moments.”

Vogel, Beck and Lewis take their turns hugging me, and get ice cream for their own personal bowls. I take a small amount, knowing a lot of ice cream would make me sick to my stomach.

We don’t say much, but it’s a happy occasion as we all enjoy the rehydrated ice cream NASA sent on the Taiyang Shen.

Suddenly they’re singing happy birthday, off-key and discoordinated, and they’re all looking at me. First I hide my face, I’m turning red, really red, and then I get that tearing feeling in my throat, and then my eyes water. By the end, tears are streaming down my face and I’m trying to hide in my hands but it just isn’t working because I’m heaving big, wet sobs. There’s something hot and good in my chest and it’s bursting out of me and I hope I never stop feeling this way.

“Hey, hey, Mark,” Johanssen says softly, sitting next to me and leaning in to put her arm around me.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say thickly, trying to wipe off my face. The tears are coming faster than my hands can handle, and I can’t quite get myself to stop.

“You always apologize, man, it’s okay,” Martinez says, laughing. “We get it.”

I’m sobbing, my chest is moving with the effort. “You know, I was kind of proud of myself -” my voice hitched. “I’d managed to get through a month and a half without crying like a big baby -”

“Stop it, Mark,” Lewis said, half command. “Stop being self-deprecating. With all you’ve been through, you’re entitled to whatever emotions you want.”

I’m still crying, but it’s letting up, someone’s handed me a hand towel from somewhere (no disposable tissues on the Hermes) and I’m cleaning myself up.

I didn’t want to ruin the moment, but something in me wanted to talk, wanted them to know a tiny, tiny slice of what happened to me. If they knew, I’d be less alone.

“I didn’t even notice my birthday. I knew it had to be sometime around the first year, but I stopped keeping track of the date after the first Christmas.” I look down at the empty ice cream bowl. “I thought being the first man to celebrate Christmas on Mars would be fun.”

They’re all silent now.

“It wasn’t fun,” I say, voice still wet. “I was gonna make a little tree, but realized it would be a huge waste of resources, and that I didn’t have anything to make a tree out of anyways, and…” and that you guys and the entire fucking planet thought I was _dead_. “And Jesus, I couldn’t even get drunk to deal, you know? The indignity of it all.” Ah humor, my favorite defense mechanism. “My point is, it means a lot that you guys remembered.”

Even though I didn’t. Especially since I didn’t. Why remember the birthday of someone who was dead already? Or better yet, why remember the birthday of someone who didn’t exist?

Lewis’s voice is heavy. “We would never forget.”

“We, uh,” Martinez said, “We all sat around on the Hermes your birthday and did nothing but cry. We all hid in our bunks, but that’s what we were doing. So… don’t think you’re ever forgotten.”

The plain honesty of the comment, out of Martinez of all people, blindsided me.

It would be a lie to say I didn’t consider their reactions to my death. In my more hopeful moments I imagined everyone crying, being sad, missing me. Since I was alive, of course, it was horrifying that people who claim to love me could not know they abandoned me alive, but at least in my imagination they were sad about me being dead.

But in my less hopeful moments I imagined everyone not caring, moving on, completing the abandonment. _Oops, we forgot Watney, oh well_.

Instead of saying any of those things, I say “What makes you think I’d think that?”

He looks at me. “I know you’re having a hard time, is all. Don’t know what’s going through your head, but I can guess.”

I purse my lips, look down at my finished ice cream. That wasn’t quite an answer, but the words rattled around in my head all the same.

Lewis added her voice. “We’re here for you when you’re ready.”

The words repeated themselves in my head, a broken tape. _When you’re ready, we’re here._

I want to tell them, I want to tell them what happened, I want them to tell me i _t’s all right_ and _we didn’t want to leave you_ and _we’re sorry_ even though I know that’s all true. But they never say it, they just wander around and look sad and expect me to somehow magically know and then somehow _I’m_ the one comforting _them_ , every fucking time.

I can’t do this, I’m finished with my ice cream anyways, I mumble a response and hastily stand up and run away to somewhere else to be alone, just for a fucking moment.

I stand in the hallway in the bunk room, tears coming all over again.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 732

Vogel watched him leave and looked alert, questioning whether or not we should follow him. But Beck shook his head ‘no,’ and Vogel settled into his seat.

“He’s got someone with him almost 24/7,” Beck said quietly. “I think he can be left alone for a minute.”

“Jesus,” Martinez said, always the first one to respond. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Johanssen agreed. “Jesus.”

“You say Jesus a lot for a catholic,” Beck said, to Martinez.

Martinez looked around at the room. “This situation calls for it.”

“Yeah,” Lewis said hoarsely. “Jesus.”

“NASA didn’t know he was alive by Christmas,” Vogel said hollowly. “For two solid months no one even thought he was alive, and he was completely alone.”

Martinez pursed his lips. “And we were sitting here, crying over his death when he wasn’t even fucking dead.”

“Hey!” Beck said again. “He’s back. We just sung him happy birthday. He cried, for gods sakes. This was a good day, let’s not make it sad.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” Martinez says, standing. He held out his hand, and everyone handed him their ice cream bowls. They composed themselves, then filed out of the room.

By the time anyone got back out into the ship, Mark had locked himself in his hot bunk room, and no one tried to drag him out.

—

I’m standing on the horizon of Mars.

The horrible red dust is swirling in the distance, rapidly becoming a dust storm.

I’m not wearing my EVA suit, but it’s still deadly silent. I run into the Hab, which has no airlock. But I realize the airlock is broken and I’m inside. Somehow I know that all the airlocks are broken. If I try to leave the hab, it will be ruined forever.

The sandstorm rockets past me, and it’s buffeting the Hab. It’s going to rip. I huddle over my potatoes, as if that’s going to protect my food from dying. All my EVA suits are gone. Oh God, this sandstorm is horrible, I have no EVA suits, no airlock.

Suddenly, the hab rips right down the center.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 733

I jerk awake, panting and sweating almost right at 3:13am, on schedule. I’m shaking, I look up, but the Hab canvas isn’t what I see. It’s the ceiling of my quarters, and it does not have a huge rip in it, and it is not depressurizing. On the ground, there is not martian dirt either. Just the cold, unforgiving white floor of the composite plastic the Hermes is made out of.

Oh shit, am I tired. I’m going to lay back down and try and sleep tonight, because that nightmare wasn’t so bad. I’m shaking, but now I know from experience my panic will wind down in ten or twenty minutes and then I’ll be as fine as I’m going to get. I’ll probably even fall back asleep without noticing.

—

This nightmare is a lot more vivid. Because it’s not a nightmare, it’s a memory. It’s not the sol the airlock ripped open. It’s actually about a week or two after I sabotaged the Hab to make myself a bedroom. The Hab canvas ceiling is all fucked up, but I’ve tested my seal already by spending last night in the rover.

Mars is punishing me for trying to defy him, and the sandstorm is hellish. I’m not sure how bad the sandstorm is actually, probably doesn’t even qualify as a sandstorm, but the pinging of grains of sand against the canvas is hellish to me. I spent an hour or two just trying to sleep, but I don’t want to take a sleeping pill and die in the night from depressurization. It’s only 140-something Sols until the end, I’ve already made it so _fucking_ far.

I run to get my EVA suit and put it on, unable to handle watching the Hab canvas distort under the pressure. This way, if it depressurizes, I’m going to have some sort of a defense.

You can’t sleep in the EVA suit, though, and I don’t want to waste the suit’s filters and battery on what would be an all-night EVA. So I release the helmet pressure to equalize with the Hab every ten minutes, so that I can breathe without the filter, but if the Hab does explode my helmet is on and I can easily survive by just turning the suit on.

I’m huddling there on the floor for hours, huddling until my knees hurt, listening to my own harsh breath in the suit. My heart is beating out of my chest; there is nothing I can do to fight a sandstorm. If Mars decides that this is the night I die, there is nothing I can do to stop it. I’ve already been here over three hundred Sols, I’ve only got a handful of Sols left, I’m finally attached to my life. I don’t want to die so close to the ending. I’m so close to leaving in the Rover for Schiaparelli and Mars is going to kill me right before my victory.

I’m talking to myself, a string of words like “fuck Mars” and “I hate this planet,” over and over, trying to drown out the sound of the storm

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 733

That’s how I wake up at 4:37, the words “fuck this planet” dying in my mouth as wake on my side in that same huddled position. But thank god there’s no EVA helmet on my head, and there is no sandstorm threatening to kill me from depressurization.

Every morning, realizing Mars isn’t going to kill me is a blessing.

I’m shaking a lot more this time, sweat coating my sheets and rattling me through. I’m not going to get back to bed, so I might as well get up and shower and make something of myself. The temptation to lay here and sulk is overwhelming, the heaviness in my chest must be 1.5gs on it’s own. Ha ha, a gravity joke.

I drag my protesting body off of the bed, and walk to the shower down the hall. Once I’m inside the bathroom I look at myself in the mirror.

My haircut is atrocious, but I’m doing a lot better. The starvation bruises have faded and I’ve got some weight around my hips, so I don’t look like a deranged skeleton at a halloween party. My body is still far too thin, but it looks sort of natural, like someone who had never met me would just think I’m a really skinny guy. A really _really_ skinny guy. If they squinted.

But I know me, and I know it’s not natural, and it twists my gut with shame.

Standing for more then ten minutes isn’t making me fall over exhausted anymore, so I think I’m going to inform Beck it’s time for me to hit the gym. I would have had to do it anyways, the rest of the crew works out every day in the fitness room. It’s how astronauts don’t die of blood clots when we’re reintroduced to gravity, and I’d like to not die of a blood clot.

For now, I just step into the shower. The hot water always makes me feel better.

Honestly, I wish there was a tub. My little RTG bath was pretty great, and I could do with another one of those right about now. The exhaustion is pulling at my eyes, too many days waking up before the alarm.

I clean up quickly and put on one of the uniform jumpsuits we all wear. Mine, this time, because I think I’m finally big enough for that. But when I walk out the door, I’m greeted with the sight of Lewis at the door.

“What are you doing up, Watney?” she said, rubbing her eyes blearily.

“What are _you_ doing up?” I asked in return. I was under the impression they knew I had nightmares, since I had obliquely referenced being up all night a few times now.

She groaned. “The shower water pipe runs next to my quarters.”

I looked at her mussed hair. “Then go back to bed.”

She looks at the floor, as if hiding. “I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

I don’t know what she wants. I’m not okay. If she looked carefully she would be able to see the fine tremble in my hands that persisted through the shower. “Go to bed, Lewis.”

She turned on her heels and wandered back to her bed, but I doubted if she was going to get any more sleep either.

For my part, I went to go get a snack. I need to bulk up. After finishing my snack, I sat in the squishy chair by the window and stared at the receding dot that is Mars.

My guess about Lewis right, because about 45 minutes later Lewis joined me. Damn, she ruined my sneaky ‘look at mars and feel existentially empty’ routine.

“Do you always wake up in the middle of the night?” She asked, freshly showered with her hair pulled back.

I considered lying to her, but it isn’t worth it.

“Yeah.”

“So you’re just down here alone every morning?” A frown pulls at her features.

“Only some. Sometimes I just lay in bed until 7.”

She shrugged, sitting down. “What do you do?”

“Usually I work on my report or fuck around with the email…” I rambled. Something about the hour inspired me to be a little more honest. “Sometimes I get out the telescope and look at Mars. Specifically the Hab.”

She turned, surprised. “Why?” Her tone is one of utter disbelief. I imagine _she_ can’t imagine why I would do something so… self destructive.

“It’s just strange, seeing a place that caused me so much suffering on a spot smaller than a dime.”

She sighed, and her eyes turned to Mars out the window too. Thankfully, it was getting smaller by the day, too small to see the Hab now. Soon it was going to be Sagan’s pale orange dot, and our pale blue dot was going to get larger and larger. There was going to be a lot of time in between when they were both tiny, too, our ship the only thing in the expanse of space.

She sighed, and her voice was lost. “You were so excited to go.”

I looked at her solemnly. “Melissa, we all were.”

She sighed, again, still looking at Mars.

I smiled sideways. “It was actually cool, after a fashion. Hey, I get to be the person who lived on Mars the longest, and at least I got to go before I died. It was my childhood dream.” Nevermind that I would take back the whole experience if I could, but hey, I’ll take what I can get.

Her eyes were watering, Melissa Lewis the Commander’s eyes were watering.

I put my hand over hers. It’s a little perverse, that _I’m_ comforting _her,_ and something in me resents it. “Melissa. You are not responsible for this.”

“I’m the commander, I am by default responsible. And my mistake could have killed you. By all rights, it should have.”

“But it didn’t.”

“Yeah, but instead it stole 18 months your life, starved you half to death, and gave you PTSD.” She looked down, and put her hand on her head. “That’s the hard thing about being a Commander. Your mistakes affect other people’s lives.”

It would have irritated me that she still felt bad, but this is exactly what made her such a good commander. She took the lives of all her men seriously. “Melissa, I knew something like this might happen when I signed up.”

“What, that you might get stuck on Mars?” she said sarcastically.

I smiled. “No, that I might die.” It made it easier to consider suicide, in a way. It wasn’t suicide, not really. Ares III, NASA, and the entire world thought I was dead. I sighed a paper that said I knew I might die. Really, I already was. “We all knew that was a risk.”

“It should have been me,” she said, looking back again at the red dusty planet.

“I’m glad it was me,” I found myself saying, and I hate that fact so _fucking_ much but I know it’s true. “I know most people in that position would have just injected the morphine and been done with it. And that’s fine, because… you all thought I was dead, NASA thought I was dead, I had no way to tell anyone I wasn’t dead. Honestly, that would have been perfectly reasonable. I wouldn’t fault anyone for it.”

I didn’t want to say the words, because to me they didn’t feel true. They felt like a horrible, shameful admission of my own fucking weakness. But they were true, and I wanted Lewis to know I was glad it was me and not her. I mean, I wasn’t glad it was me, but if it had to be me or one of them, I am glad it was me.

Lewis’s eyes widened, and widened again, and in that moment I realized that was the most directly I’d referenced wanting to load up a syringe with morphine and be done with my miserable existence. I said ‘injected the morphine,’ not ‘injected morphine,’ referencing a specific morphine and implying that that was a little more than just a hypothetical. Oh, whatever. Time to change tack.

“But I’m a stubborn, optimistic asshole. It had to be me. Only I could be foolish enough to think I could fight Mars and win.”

She smiled a watery smile. “And you did.”

I looked at Mars out the window. “Yeah, fuck you Mars, I win. In the words of Buzz Aldrin, “I walked on your face.””

That made her laugh a wobbly laugh, and I considered my job done. “Don’t worry about it anymore, Lewis.”

Just then, the Hermes shimmied.

That was _not_ something I wanted. My heart leapt right up into my throat, and I had to immediately fist my nails into the palm of my hands. My gut is twisting, twisting hard in my stomach, _oh my god there’s nothing I can fucking do._

 _Mark_! I tell myself. _Listen_! I am not in the MAV, or on Mars, and the Hermes is a perfectly reasonably constructed piece of equipment. There is absolutely no reason to be afraid.

My nails are biting into my hands, forming half-moons in my palms. They’re going to bleed if I keep this up, I know from experience.

“Better go see what that is,” Lewis said, standing swiftly and with much more calm than me. I followed her, knowing I wouldn’t feel better until I knew what it was, digging my nails into my palms deeper and deeper.

I knew it was probably just a brief interplanetary dust cloud. Yes, even space has turbulence. But as I bounced around in 0g behind her, I continued to dig my nails into my palms so that my core wouldn’t shake. Thank god this was 0g, or honestly I might have had a tough time walking on the legs I knew would be shaking.

We got to the control room and I took my comm seat, trying to make myself useful for Lewis.

She obviously felt she could handle it herself, and after a bit of clicking around she found the problem. “One of the larger panels is loose. The rush of air from the VAL probably left something on the bolts and caused them to rust. The readout is displaying that their hold is weakening. We must have passed particulates which moved it. We just need to send Martinez out to tighten them.”

Normally that would be my responsibility as engineer, but I never want to be in an EVA suit again. Lewis probably just wanted to avoid sending the wreck of a man outside the vehicle though, and I’m not arguing.

“Loose bolts aren’t a minor problem,” I said, and my voice sounded paranoid even to me.

She shrugged, as if she didn’t hear it. “They’re not major. There’s tons more layers between that outside plating and our pressure vessel. The big worry would be particulates getting to the components and shorting something out. The plating is to keep particulates out and reduce atmospheric drag.”

I knew as well as her that all the life support was redundant four times over, so even if it did short something, it wasn’t going to be fatal. At most, it would cause an annoying short that makes all the lights in the labs or something else stupid go out.

She was right, it was no problem. But it was going to give me anxiety the rest of the day.

“I’m just used to living in canvas tent with one half-working tin can life support system,” I supply shakily, and I dug my nails into my palm again to keep the shake out of my voice. I hope Lewis can’t see that. “It’s nice to actually have equipment again.”

She laughed, shooing me out of the control room.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 733

While I wasn’t the one doing the EVA, I had the dubious honor of suiting Martinez up later that day, and telling him what sort of engineer things he’d need to do. Engineer-things being “here are the new bolts” and “here is the wrench.”

Even with such a simple task, EVAs were a process. They had to be organized with NASA, and Beck had to be managing the entire process on the headset, and since it was a task I’d ordinarily do I had to be on the headset as well the whole time. They required hours of warning, and tons of training, and were not quick little jaunts outside the spaceship. All the NASA oversight was winding me up, making me far more anxious about this than I’d usually be.

Martinez is more observant than Lewis about my state of mind. “Are you nervous, Watney?” He laughed. “ _I’m_ the one going outside.”

“You like going outside,” I admonished, deflecting.

“Yeah, until I become wildly afraid I’m going to lose my grip and float away forever.”

“Use your tether then.”

“You know I do.”

I grinned at him. “You can always iron-man it if you do.” That got a real laugh out of him.

Yes, I was nervous, because I was acutely aware of how many ways space could try to kill you.

I stepped back through the airlock, and thank God no one could see me, because as the airlock made it’s whooshing noise my gut dropped straight through the floor and I covered my ears.

I hadn’t heard it in a while, and only now that I’m not subjected to it every day do I really realize how much I _hate_ that sound. It was the sound of a feeble fight against the infinite vacuum. I hope that after this mission is over I never hear it again. Yeah, definitely no space for me ever again.

On camera, I walked Martinez through the repair _again_ , in all it’s daunting complexity. Go to the panel, use the wrench, take out the old bolt, put in a new bolt. Martinez, being of at least mediocre ability, was able to use a wrench and get back without it being a life-risking debacle. We have little magnetic plates to hold bolts and tethers for those plates, and we’ve trained for the entire process about eight billion times.

The EVA went well, but after getting him out of the suit and putting it away, I was ready for the day to be over.

“I don’t want to harass you, but dude, you’re pale,” Martinez informed me as I got his equipment off. Yes, I was pale, I just heard the repressurization noise and remembered that we are literally floating debris in deep space, with rescue only 100 million miles away, and my heart dropped into my gut again.

“Thanks,” I bit out. Really, what an addition.

“Is it the EVA?”

Dude, is it within your ability to not pry? “It’s fine, Martinez.”

“You know -”

“I can talk about anything, I know,” I said, frustrated. “I said it’s fine.” Martinez looked stung, but I don’t care.

I wanted to talk about things when I was depressed. When I’m depressed, I’m screaming in my head for _please anyone notice my suffering_. But right now, I was not depressed. I was anxious, and anxiety made me want to curl up into a ball on my bed and not talk or hear anything for 45 minutes.

But I don’t have the luxury; at least for right now, I’m an on-duty astronaut.

Martinez thankfully got the picture and left me alone to put away the EVA suit. The sight turned my stomach.

This time, it wasn’t a PTSD thing that made me sick at the sight of this EVA suit. I was just sick of space. I want to be back home where there’s full gravity, and a world of food that is not potatoes, and blue skies complete with a breathable atmosphere that you don’t need an EVA suit for.

I’ve been saying Fuck Mars for a while, but also, Fuck Space.

 

 

 

 

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 734

It’s really damn good that Martinez fixed those bolts, because God decided he didn’t like our arrogance and sent a sandstorm our way.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 734

**Earlier That Day**

I’m in the rec room, writing The Potato Report in the squishy chair, trying to introduce some variety by not sitting in my botanical room. The biggest window is in the rec room, and I’m trying to see as much space as I possibly can before it’s over. Right now I can’t wait to get back to _Earth_ , but I know as soon as I’m back, I’ll miss it, so I’m taking it in while I can.

Johanssen and Vogel are here with me, chattering occasionally, probably due to the secret agenda to get me socialized again. I’m thankful for the company, thankful just to be listening to their quiet scientific discussions.

Suddenly the alarm in Hermes went off, blaring in our ears and digging into my skull. God, why did Hermes need loud alarms for everything? Even the alarm for changing the toilet filter was loud.

I heard the sounds of particulates pinging against the Hermes and suddenly, I was gone.

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 734

Johanssen and Vogel were in the room with Watney, the two members of the crew who had tasks today that could move with their laptops.

As soon as the alarm went off, they both saw Watney immediately stiffen where he sat, eyes losing focus.

“Be advised, Hermes is traveling through a dust cloud. We will be through it in a little over ten minutes.” Lewis’s voice sounded through the comm.

Dust clouds were common in interplanetary space, and every Ares III mission had encountered at least one on the journey. Every planet, even Earth, had a distant orbiting dust cloud, an invisible ring of tiny dust grains and pebbles. They rattled the cooling vanes and external components slightly, but the Hermes was engineered to stand up to the strain.

Suddenly Watney threw himself from his seat, backing into the wall and cowering on the ground with his hands over his head. He was shaking like a leaf, mumbling to himself, and while Johanssen and Vogel couldn’t make out what he was saying, they very clearly heard the word “sandstorm.”

Johanssen’s heart dropped into her gut as she slammed on the comm. “Advised. Watney isn’t taking it so well.”

For a moment, she didn’t know what in the hell to do. But standing up, she decided to go sit next to him and go from there. Johanssen thought it was just anxiety related to the dust cloud; they hadn’t seen him yet take something so poorly, but it was a sandstorm that got him stranded, and it wouldn’t be surprising for that to upset him.

She was already composing a speech to try and calm him down when she got near, and heard what he’s actually saying.

“The Hab is fine, sandstorms are normal, the Hab is fine…”

Johanssen remembered Beck’s briefing a month ago. _“NASA’s list covered everything. Depression, anxiety, flashbacks, hallucinations…”_

“You’re not in the Hab,” She said, getting down on the floor next to him. “You’re on the Hermes. This is a dust cloud, it’s not dangerous. You’re safe, on Hermes, with the crew!”

Mark continued to talk, curling tighter in on himself and away from her.

“Dr. Beck, please come to rec,” Vogel said into the wall radio. “Watney seems to be having a flashback.”

Johanssen noticed a distinct lack of effectiveness with this tactic, feeling useless. She pinched her eyes shut, and denied the feeling of desperation that overtook her.

—

_Fuck, fuck I can’t fucking do this._

_I tested the Hab overnight last night, but there wasn’t a sandstorm last night. I can’t predict when a sandstorm is going to happen, and it’s just my luck that one happened tonight. Fuck this entire fucking planet, I hate this god forsaken planet…_

_I want to go hide in the rover but I can’t because if I use the airlock the sandstorm will rip through the airlock and send soil particles flying through the air, which would definitely rip the Hab. No, I’m stuck here inside the Hab, cowering in the lower corner of the Hab like the shitty canvas can protect me from the endless vacuum of Mars._

_I’m in my EVA suit, hiding from the sandstorm. I’m not turning it all the way on, just leaving it with the pressure on, so that the filters and tanks don’t get used up in an all-night EVA. I open it every hour to let the air mix with Hab air, to save the filter and oxygen tank._

_I spend the rest of the night in the corner huddling over the potatoes that are inside, as if my body will protect them from flying everywhere in the event of depressurization. I would watch TV, but I can’t hear it in the EVA suit over the din of the sandstorm. There was nothing I could do but wait it out, huddled in the corner in this stupid bulky EVA suit._

_I put my head in my hands, covered the helmet with them. I’m going to die in a fucking EVA suit. I’m tired of watching myself die._

—

Crew  
Mission Day 734

Beck entered the room, having heard the announcement over the wall radio. As soon as he saw Watney, he ran over and knelt next to Johanssen. “This is bad,” he murmured.

“You don’t say?” Johanssen said, having given up trying to get his attention.

Watney is still curled in on himself, hands over his head in his hair, muscles straining to make himself as small as possible.

Lewis’s voice sounded quietly from the other side of the room. “I’ve worked with men before who were amazing, superhuman, under pressure. Men who folded like paper houses once they got home. Living in a Hab in a sandstorm would count as pressured.” She and Martinez had come at Vogel’s call.

Watney had fallen silent, but was still backed against the wall, shaking. The sounds of the dust cloud continued to beat against the ship, pinging and rattling.

Lewis considered saying ‘He’s no less of a man for this,’ but everyone in this room already knew.

“I suppose in a perverse way, this means he’s unwinding,” Beck said quietly, sitting down beside him. “Mark, if you can hear us, we’re right here with you.” Everyone else sat down around him as well, farther back, not wanting to tower over him.

“What can we do?” Vogel asked from where he sat.

Lewis shook her head sadly. “Nothing but wait.”

—

I think the sandstorm is ending, it’s getting quieter. Thank god, I can take off this EVA and go to fucking sleep and maybe I won’t die. Maybe I will, but if I’m gonna die I want to do it in my sleep before Mars taunts me with this shit.

I reach up to release the helmet, but my hands just find the smooth skin on the back of my neck. Suddenly I realize my feet aren’t on dirt, my arms aren’t in an EVA suit. I’m wearing the NASA jumper, my feet are on cold smooth composite.

I open my eyes, and see the Hermes floor below me. My heart is still pounding like I’m in the sandstorm, but I’m on the Hermes. The sandstorm is a dust cloud. I look up. There’s a dust storm passing by the window, causing the noise. Perfectly normal for Hermes, I remember. I’m in the rec room, working. Except that instead of being on the chair, I’m crouched on the floor, and suddenly I can feel everyone’s presence around me.

Predictably, I startle, but don’t actually move from my position, instead a violent shiver passing through me.

“Are you with us?” Beck’s voice floated into my ears. He’s on the ground in front of me, sitting quietly.

The memory of the sandstorm, and the Hab, was still as vivid in my mind as if I was actually there. I can see the canvas shimmy right in front of me, but I’m not there, I’m on the Hermes.

“Yeah, but I’m there,” is my unhelpful answer. I can see the Hermes. I can see the Hab.

“Do you know where you are?” His voice is calm, smooth, and I hold on to it.

The rattling Hab canvas is in front of me, taunting me. Cold dread crawls into my heart. _I’m going to die and there’s nothing I can do._

“The Hermes,” my mouth is dry. Right at this moment, the Hab feels more real than Hermes. “The Hab.”

“What are you experiencing?” His voice is hard for me to hold on to, swimming around in my head.

“I…” my voice is shaking so hard I can barely get the words out. “I cut the Hab canvas and repaired it with resin. But there’s a sandstorm, and fuck _fuck_ it’s gonna rip the Hab apart, the resin won’t hold, my seams aren’t strong enough, I’m gonna fucking die here -”

“Mark!” Beck knelt in front of me, voice quiet and decisive. “Put your hand on the floor. What do you feel?” He puts his own hand on the floor in front of me, leading me.

I reach down for the floor, mimicking him, and I feel the smooth composite material the entire ship is made out of. Not a single speck or grain of foreign material. In my mind’s eye, I don’t reach down to the ground, I’m still curled in the Hab corner, shaking in the EVA suit.

It worked, it made the Hermes swim further into view. “I feel the Hermes.”

The Hab fades to a memory, a vivid memory, but the horrible panicked feeling is still thundering through my blood.

Beck’s still talking. “Listen. We are almost through the dust cloud. It’s almost over.” Beck was right, we were almost through the cloud, it was rattling against the Hermes distinctly less than when it started.

I can see everyone else behind him now, sitting on the ground farther back, watching this play out. I knew I’d freak out in front of them eventually.

My breathing stays harsh. Just because the images and sounds left, didn’t mean my heart wasn’t still pounding like I was on death’s door. This feeling is sickening to me, leeching into my veins, heart in my stomach. I just want it to be fucking _over, I just want to die so that it’s over,_ god can it just _please_ be fucking over _._

“Talk to us, what’s happening,” Johanssen said, Beck’s backup therapist. I didn’t mind, not right now.

“Panic attack,” I panted. Feel like I’m going to die, right here on the cold and unyielding floor of the Hermes. At least the dirt floor of the Hab was weirdly warm, and always seemed like a comfortable place to have a heart attack. The Hermes is cold, and hard, and not a comfortable place to lay down and never get back up from.

“What can we do to help?” Beck asked.

“Nothing,” I groaned. There was nothing to do but sit here and feel like I’m dying, right now. I lean over, taking quick breaths, trying to steady myself. “Nothing’s happening, Mark,” I tell myself. “Everything is fine. Nothing is happening, Mark. Everything is okay.” I’m talking to myself loudly, in front of them, but I can’t bring myself to stop. I can feel my hands wound in my hair, pulling hard.

I look up at Beck. “Why is this happening?” I grind out.

“Your body has just built up reactions to external stimuli. A lot of stimuli, since by your own admission every stimuli there presented you was trying to kill you.” Beck’s voice, soft but professional.

“And people think they’re tough for living in Australia,” is my shaky retort.

Johanssen laughed at that one, as if she were surprised. “Having a flashback and still cracking jokes.”

I gave her a pained, cocky grin. Just because my chest was caving in didn’t mean I couldn’t have a little fun. The feeling that death was upon me didn’t stop my humor, Mars taught me that.

The terror redoubled, my entire body giving a violent shiver. Oh God, it comes in waves. “Nothing is happening, Mark, you’re fine. Everything is fine…”

Lewis reaches out to touch me but Beck swats her hand away and I’m thankful, God am I thankful but I don’t have the ability to thank him when my mouth is busy saying “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine…”

Slowly, ever so slowly, the shaking lessened, the waves smaller and smaller each time. The feeling in my gut seeped away slowly, leaving me with an echo of nausea in my stomach and a profound emptiness in my body.

Finally, _finally_ , the shaking stopped. I’m sitting still, my hands are on my head, and my back and knees are screaming in pain.

“I need off this floor,” I groaned, and Vogel was quick to help me into a seat.

“So it’s over?” Lewis asked, standing with everyone else.

“Yeah,” although I’m still a little wobbly. “This isn’t fun.”

“I don’t think it will be as bad on earth,” Johanssen’s soothing voice came. “If triggers are anything that could remind you of your trauma, and your trauma was on a spacecraft and a foreign planet, then probably being on a spacecraft _with that planet in view_ isn’t helping.”

I shrugged. Honestly, it wasn’t that bad. When I looked out at hell, sometimes the feeling of _oh-god-I’m-going-to-die_ flooded my chest (which probably counted as a flashback or something) but usually my feeling was just _fuck you, Mars_.

No, apparently one of my triggers is the sound of wooshing wind and sandstorms. Living in Chicago just wasn’t going to work anymore.

“Probably don’t even have my house anymore,” I said to myself.

“What?” came Beck’s confused voice.

“My house. I was declared dead, it was probably sold anyways. Just was well, I was going to move.”

“Why?” Martinez said.

“My parents live in Chicago, yeah. But NASA is in Houston. Most of you are in Houston. I only stayed in Chicago after college out of habit. But I was declared dead, and that house is probably sold, so I can move. I bet the data dump would tell me. Hell, I practically lived there for a year while NASA housed us for training.”

NASA trained us for two years for this mission on site, and much of the training was done in Houston. Fuck, I visited home so infrequently that it barely even counted as home. It was more of a vacation house.

“Great! Watney’s gonna live near us!” Johanssen said, turning to Beck.

“You’re gonna move in together after we get back? That’s fast,” I quip. “I’ll get a place near your guys’s, then,” I said, doing those damnable breathing exercises Beck taught me. Breathe into the stomach, not the lungs. In, and out.

Every few seconds, I shudder. My entire body is still in pain.

“Don’t forget near mine, too,” Martinez poked in.

This made something loosen in my heart. The guarantee that I would have them near me when we got back, so that I could work through whatever insanity Earth wanted to throw at me when I got back.

I ignored the feeling of fear, the misplaced and _insane_ feeling of fear, at the thought of going back to earth.

 

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 735

The next day, when anyone brings up what happened, I blatantly ignore them. It’s childish, really, only one step below sticking your fingers in your ears and saying ‘I can’t hear you!’ But I’ve got appointed babysitters that I can’t escape, and I’m out of options. I don’t know exactly what their interrogation would be about, but I know I don’t want it.

I’m just going to sit at this table, eating my breakfast, and literally stone face ignore them. Johanssen accuses me of being childish, but I don’t care what she thinks.

Eventually Lewis and Beck lose their sense of determination, and stop asking.

Vogel is my babysitter for today at my request, because I know he won’t pester me the entire day about it, not once.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 740

It’s been 53 days since I was rescued, and I still haven’t adjusted.

I’m getting a sinking feeling in my chest, a feeling that says _Mark, you’re not going to_.

It puts a rock in my stomach, hard and dark and painful. You’ll never adjust. The pain in your chest isn’t going to stop. It’s always going to be there.

I put my hand on my chest, bend over in my bed where I’m sitting, try and breathe out my nose through the pain. It’s going to go away, I’m not on Mars anymore. 41 days really isn’t a lot of time to get over a lifelong trauma, I shouldn’t be jumping to conclusions.

Fear falls on my shoulders, and I can actually feel myself sag with the weight. I fought so hard, so _hard_ to come home just to find out that home might not be home anymore.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 742

I’m sitting in my lab at a chair, typing up The Potato Report, when there’s a knocking at my door. Johanssen is in the room with me, too into her work to pay much attention.

“It’s me,” Beck offered, coming in. “Daily checkup.”

“Do we need to keep doing this every day?” I asked. “My vitals are just getting better, I haven’t gotten sick on the ship, and I actually hang out with you guys now. Hey, that reminds me,” I added, “Can I sleep in my bedroom again? I’m strong enough to bounce around the whole ship now.”

“Have you been to the 1g environment yet?” Beck asked, wrapping the blood pressure monitor around my arm.

I nodded. “Yeah, and I can’t walk a ton, but I’m fine if I’m sitting.”

Beck sighed, a long sigh. “The idea worries me, but I’ll approve it. There’s a standard of health for taking the descent vehicle, and if you’re not at it by the time we arrive, then we’ll have to delay descent, and no one wants that.”

“What’s your worry?”

Beck shrugged. “Just worry. I care about you, Mark, and I’d hate to injure you over something stupid.” He unwrapped the blood pressure cuff. “You’re improving steadily, by the way.”

“Great,” I say. “Good to know all this effort won’t be in vain.”

Beck didn’t smile. “How are the antidepressants working?”

I sigh. “Not at all. Not even a little. Are you sure they aren’t sugar pills?”

Beck sighed in response. “I have stronger pills, much stronger, but I’m hesitant to give them to you because their side effects are severe. Let’s stop the antidepressants for now, and just work with coping mechanisms.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Coping mechanisms?”

Beck frowned. “I hate to say it, but yoga, meditation, those things.”

“I do yoga every morning,” Johanssen pipes up, as if we didn’t all already know. “You could do it with me.”

I roll my eyes, but say “Can’t hurt to try. Just let me know.” Fucking yoga. I’ll eat a potato if yoga works.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 746

I’m tippy-tapping away on the laptop in the wee hours of the morning in the rec room, before anyone has woken up to be my babysitter. It’s one of the precious few times I get to be alone.

Vogel raps the wall near the ladder to announce his presence. It startles me, but only a little, and I can pretend I didn’t jump in my seat when he walks near.

“So how are you this fine morning?” He asks with a flourish, making himself a snack or something to eat. I would accuse him of creating a pretense, but this is Alex Vogel and he observes no social niceties. If he’s asking how I am, he genuinely wants to know.

We initially didn’t get along because of his tendency to be blunt, rude and emotionless, but after a year and a half of isolation, it’s something I find I appreciate. Perhaps he’s experienced isolation in his life, too.

“Were you lonely growing up?” I ask after a half-second of debate. I wish my brain had thought about asking that more, but I suppose a half-second of assessment is better than literally blurting out every thought.

“What?” He asked blankly.

“Sorry, I just…” I waved my hand indistinctly, not wanting to explain.

“No, it’s fine, it was just a non sequitor,” he rumbled. “I was, very much so. My parents worked, and I was an introverted child. Why?”

I swallowed, and looked at Vogel. I want to talk about Mars; it’s the only thing on my damn mind, ever, and I for once want to talk to someone about it.

“I would feel bad telling you first,” I laugh nervously. “Johanssen and Beck have formed a combined effort to get me to talk about… being gone, and they might feel betrayed if I open up to you first.”

“Oh no, do tell me first, then I can say that I am not as emotionless as people think I am.” He looks at me sideways, gives half a smile.

I laugh. “I used to not like your blunt, deadpan mannerisms. I didn’t like that you didn’t physically express affection, or concern, or any of those things. But now…”

I pull air into my chest, but it doesn’t relieve the heavy feeling there. “Now I appreciate it a lot. Talking to Beck feels like an emotional rollercoaster, talking to Johanssen is the same thing as talking to Beck, I can’t talk to Lewis because I can’t pile on, and Martinez, whom I love, just has no idea how to handle it. I feel like I could tell you anything, and you would just not make a big deal of it.”

Vogel sat back in his chair, and considered me. “I had a very rough time when I was young. My parents mistreated me. Many people tried to talk to me about what happened. After a while, all of the comforting things people say and do start to sound the same. I did not need more tears. I needed a real conversation. I assumed the same was true for you.”

I turned to him. “I didn’t know that about you.”

He smiled wanly. “I don’t hide it for my sake; I hide it because it makes others uncomfortable to talk about.”

I swallowed thickly. His words hit the nail on the head.

“So what do you want to talk about, Mark?”

I turn to see Mars out the window. What do I want to talk about?

My face falls flat as the words enter my mouth. “No one can possibly understand.”

I fall quiet for a few minutes, struggling to find something I’m willing to vocalize. I want Vogel to know, but don’t want to say the words. Vogel doesn’t react and sits there, patiently waiting for me.

Ultimately, I can’t pursue that line of thought, the words just won’t come. _No one can understand what it’s like to be on an entire planet, alone. I was completely alone._

“I’m not the man I was when you left,” I say instead. “It changed me a lot. It changed me completely. I’m a completely different person. I don’t know how to… to be, anymore,” I finish lamely. I continue studiously staring out the window, not wanting to see Vogel’s face. If I can just forget where I’m looking, the hole in my chest might be easier to confront.

Vogel stays silent. I used to think Vogel was hard as stone because he didn’t know what pain was like, but now I realize it’s quite the opposite.

“You have to create a new person,” he says instead. “Did you attempt suicide while on Mars?” he asked next, bluntly.

I’m taken aback by the bluntness of the question, so taken aback I answer before I realize what I am saying. “No. Came close.”

“Do you know the feeling right after, when you’re surprised you’re still alive? You don’t know what to do with yourself?” He continued.

I think I know where he’s going with this. “Yeah. Felt that a few times.” I turn to look at him with new eyes. “You’re speaking from experience.”

Now that I’m looking, I’m surprised I needed told. I can see it in his eyes; _he knows this feeling_.

“I had a rough time,” he says simply. “You can tell when someone’s had a tough time, can’t you?” he said. “But that feeling… it’ll pass, Mark. It’ll pass.”

I nod. Now that I’m looking at him, really looking, I can see, almost as if it were painted in neon letters, it’s so _obvious_ that Vogel knows what this kind of suffering is like. How could I miss this?

“Will it always be like this?” I ask. I’m talking about the feeling in my chest. Now I know that Vogel will understand, without needing more.

He smiles widely, a warm, kind smile like when he sees his wife or children. He’s leaning forward in his chair, to make a point. “No. It will get better, much sooner than you think. Just keep going, and everything will fall into place.” He settled back into the chair, and considered Mars. “Once you choose to live, everything will work itself out.”

“Choose to live?” I ask.

He gestures with his hand casually. “As in, accept you are alive. Once you accept it, and decide to make it yours.”

There must be something to what Vogel is saying, because suddenly the heaviness in my chest isn’t so oppressive. It doesn’t feel like I’m suffocating under it’s weight. I’ve got hope again, blooming in my chest, the same hope that bloomed when I woke up in the MAV and realized I hadn’t died during the ascent, the same hope that kept me alive all along.

“I tried not to think about it,” I said, staring at my hands. “I didn’t want to get by hopes up and then be disappointed. I…” How do I explain this? “On Sol 6, after everyone left… I was alive in the Hab, but the MAV was gone, everyone thought I was dead. I had no way to survive long enough to make contact.” My voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, the words too horrible to contemplate. “I was already dead. I just didn’t want to go through that again.”

Vogel tipped his head. “I cannot imagine.” The words were normal emotional drivel, but Vogel made them feel so real. He wasn’t pitying me, he wasn’t trying to imagine my suffering, he was just stating the truth.

I continue quietly. “So I didn’t really do a lot of hoping, or imagining what rescue would be like. I just didn’t want to think about it. Stayed very in the here and now. Keep the potatoes alive, keep the Hab intact, save the cheerleader, save the world…” I trailed off.

“Save the cheerleader?” Vogel asked.

“American pop culture reference,” I brush off.

The weight in my chest was smaller, but somehow more dense. More real. The thoughts are swirling around my head, and I feel my hands begin to shake. I need to go somewhere else.

“I’m gonna go take a nap,” I said, standing up. In my state, I don’t need to justify a mid-morning nap. Vogel doesn’t say anything as I walk off, instead heading back to whatever he was doing.

I get to the bed and curl up, and the emotions start rolling over me. I didn’t actually mean to fall asleep, but I linger in the state between sleep and wakefulness, hand clenching the bedsheets as Mars starts fresh in my mind.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 750

Almost none of the rooms on the Hermes have doors because of the weight, but our bedrooms have doors. NASA psychiatrists decided that privacy was integral to the success of a mission, so everyone got their own bedroom and everyone got their own door. But for security reasons, nobody got to have a lock on their door, just a red/green indicator that said if it was or wasn’t okay to come in. They didn’t want someone needing to kick down a door.

I’m still not sure how I feel about that decision.

 

—

Crew  
Mission Day 750

Martinez was the first to be woken. He was sleeping lightly because of the heating problem, and he could hear moaning in the quarters.

He rolled out of bed to investigate, when the moaning increased sharply and turned to yelling. Watney’s yelling. He threw on his clothes and rushed to Watney’s bedroom, only to collide with Beck on the way there.

Martinez banged on the door. “Mark!” He yelled.

“He’s probably having a nightmare,” Beck supplied, hand on the door.

“I’ve heard him have a handful before, but not like this,” Martinez admitted. He’d heard noise, mumbling and talking, but not out and out yelling.

The door was set to it’s red Do Not Enter setting. Nobody wanted to invade the privacy of someone with their red indicator on.

But when the yelling turned to Watney screaming “NO!” Martinez burst into the room.

Watney was tangled in the thin stringy sheets, and Martinez gripped his arm roughly and shook him. “Watney, wake up!”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 750

It took me a moment to process who I was looking at when I woke up. Martinez just left, they just left in the MAV, I was running in the MAV to get to them and they couldn’t hear me screaming for them to stop, they were leaving me _again,_ I couldn’t stop them and I was screaming so loud -

No, Martinez was in front of me in the Hermes quarters. It was then that I realized I was yelling, actually kind of hurting my throat, and the noise died down awkwardly as soon as I realized it.

Beck was behind him, and Johanssen and Lewis were behind him in the hallway. Vogel was nowhere to be found, and I swear to God Vogel is my favorite person on this ship, he’s the only fucking person who knows how to not to be a nosy dick.

“Go away,” I said roughly, throwing Martinez off of me and sitting up against the wall. I’m shaking, I’m about to fall apart, I need them the _hell_ out of this room.

Martinez had other ideas. “Mark -”

“Go!” I yelled, pushing him backwards. I’m shaking like a leaf, I feel like I’m going to fall apart right here in front of Martinez, I need him out before I dissolve into a thousand pieces.

Everyone gets out quickly and closes the door, and I stumble forward to set it to Do Not Enter. Don’t they fucking know what DO NOT ENTER means?

The bed is too far away now, so I collapse onto the cool floor of the Hermes. I don’t even try to stop my fingers from dancing across the floor, and I curl up against the door and shove myself into a corner. The corner on the floor is making me feel better, and I’m not inclined to argue, not capable of arguing as my heart pounds against my will. I’ll do whatever this insane body wants in order to make it _stop_.

“Nothing is wrong, Mark,” I say to myself. “Nothing is wrong, nothing is wrong…” I can barely breathe, can’t get air into my lungs.

Eventually I pass out in that corner, thankful for the relief.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 750

Martinez was thrust backward out of the room and the door slammed shut in front of him, clicking instantly to Do Not Enter.

They stood there for a moment, listening, and they couldn’t hear anything from the other side of the door.

“You guys need to back off,” Vogel says, now standing outside his room with sleepy narrowed eyes. “Give him his space.”

“I just went in to wake him up, I wasn’t trying to corner him,” Martinez said defensively.

“Did waking him up really take 4 of you?” Vogel asks. Before anyone could respond, he retreated back into his room.

“Dick,” Martinez said, turning his back and going into his room. After a moment, the rest of them did too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Here are my calculations for Mark’s birthday:  
> Sol - 1.207 day  
> Sol 16 - Nov 24, 2036 (The book establishes that this is Thanksgiving).  
> Sol 549 = Mission Day 687  
> There are 643 days between Nov 24, 2036 and Mission Day 687, making MD 687 Aug 29, 2038  
> Mark’s birthday is October 12th.  
> Aug 29 to Oct 12 is 45 days  
> MD 687+45 = MD 732
> 
> Vogel only came out to make sure nothing had happened to Mark, because he heard yelling, but he was irritated to find all of them standing outside his door like lemmings.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written from the perspective of the US being in a cold war with China during the events of the novel. Because NASA can’t get funding from Congress in the best of times. What would get NASA so much funding? What gets the most funding? The military. The only thing that would get NASA so much funding is a pissing contest with another nation. China is the only nation getting more developed and that we have a problem, with, so we must be in a cold war with China.  
> So, the Taiyang Shen cooperation represented the end of that cold war. So Mark Watney was responsible for the end of the cold war with China - on top of all his other accomplishments. This will probably come up more in the sequel.

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 751

The next morning, I didn’t really want to face the crew. At some point I woke up hunched in the corner and crawled back into bed. The bed was a fucking gift, because passing out in a corner on a hard floor really makes you hurt all over.

Beck should really do something about this sleep deprivation. I need to be in top shape to survive the descent, as he keeps saying.

Now, we’re all eating breakfast in the rec room. The awkwardness saturating the air is keeping everyone from saying anything, and thank god, because anything I have to say about it isn’t nice.

I kept my head low as I finished my breakfast, intent on consuming it as quickly as possible and getting back to hiding. I want Vogel to babysit me today because he was the only one not gawking at me last night, but if I keep requesting him it’s going to look like favoritism and I don’t want to deal with it.

Lewis looked up at me through her eyebrows, put her silverware down, and I knew today I wasn’t going to be able to skate by. “Are you doing all right?” She asked in the same not-unkind voice.

I don’t have the energy for this today. “Yeah, fine,” I say, because that’s a universal way to say ‘no, but let’s not talk about it.’

Lewis chooses to ignore this request, though, still staring at me like she can see into my soul. God damn it, why does everyone look at me like that now?

You know, on the trip there, we all learned what the other people were like when they were stressed. Johanssen cries, Martinez gripes and whines, Beck sulks, Lewis hangs her head in shame, Vogel… is Vogel. I joke. Rather, I joked, past tense. Mark Watney joked when stressed. I don’t know who I am or what I do anymore.

I was gone for a year and a half, but they had each other. They got to know each other better than I ever did. They’re a group now, and that group doesn’t include me.

My anger drains into depression instantly, water through a sieve.

“Do you think it would be of benefit to institute Family Time?” Lewis asked over my head.

Family Time was an old American space thing, where everyone on the ISS, and the Ares I, would gather at the end of the day and talk about their emotions that day. It was required, even if those emotions were just ‘I was bored all day.’ People were allowed to decline to share, but they had to publicly decline to share. It ensured that everyone had a chance to communicate with everyone else, and that nobody’s feelings went unaddressed because they never got a chance to address them.

But I don’t want Family Time. I’m not a part of this family anymore, and it’s just being used as a vehicle to pry.

“Fine, but I’m going to decline comment,” I say icily, and everyone does a great job not reacting.

“I think it would be good for the rest of us, in any case,” Johanssen said, her voice thick.

Suddenly the guilt scoops out my heart. They’re having a tough time, too, and they need this. Surely the least I can do is sit here and be present while they work through what’s going on with them.

“I think it would be of benefit for all of us,” Vogel’s voice is tired, too, and now I feel fucking awful.

Lewis nodded. Her voice is low. “I do too. Let’s reinstate Family Time, starting tonight.”

I get up immediately, throw my dishes in the bin, and I know it looks to them like I’m angry but actually I feel so guilty I can’t look at their faces. They’re _destroyed_ , all because they came back to save me.

For what feels like the millionth time, I wish that antenna had just killed me. I wish I had the decency to just die when I should have.

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 751

I spend the rest of the day anxious about this evening. I’d like to pretend that no, I don’t care, I won’t say anything, I’ll just sit through it and listen to them, but a large part of me wants them to comfort me like I’m some scared child afraid of the dark. It’s practically screaming for them to come help me, all the time.

I’m surprised that they can’t hear it. I’ve never been one for getting ‘vibes’ from people, but it’s so loud that it’s reverberating inside my head and threatening to deafen me. I’ll sit at family time and cry for help, as usual, and no one will hear me. Lets remember, though, that they already have done _so fucking much_ to come save me, and they’re perfectly within their rights not to help me now. I’m practically the king of neediness these days.

At least I can hear and help them, what little help I can fucking offer them.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 751

Dinner is an awkward affair, no one wanting to chit chat knowing that we were going to intentionally have a heart-to-heart right after. They all looked tense, as if they had things they wanted to say and no one wanted to say it.

Johanssen is the first to finish her food, so she uncertainly begins the conversation. “I know I’m the most ready to do this, so I’m willing to start. I…” she sighs. “I know I have the least right to feel this way, because my significant other is here on this ship with me, but I’m so tired. I just want to go home where everything will be easy. Make my mom and dad cook for me, and watch tv for weeks.”

She shrugs, looking down at her lap and declining to say anything more.

Beck looks over at her. “I don’t have my parents to go home to,” Beck begins, “But I have my sister. I cannot wait to see her, and tell her how everything is. Tell her how much I missed her.”

After a beat, Lewis says “I miss Robert. He is constantly collecting things for me. I know he agreed that we should rescue Mark, but I can’t help but worry that he’s resenting me, right now.”

“Marissa absolutely resents me,” Martinez joined in. “She’s not mad _at_ Mark, but she’s angry about the whole situation. I keep trying to tell her we had to do it, and she knows, but she can’t overlook the fact that my son is three and doesn’t know his father.”

I am tempted to say ‘nobody remembers being three,’ but that quip wouldn’t drown out the guilt seeping into my stomach. There is a son out there with no fucking father because of me. I wish I just had the decency to die Sol 6.

Vogel nods, making a noise in agreement. He’s got a wife too, waiting at home for him, children who miss him too.

“Marissa, Helena and Robert can form a club,” Lewis said, looking at her hands twisted together. “I feel ashamed for doing this to them.”

Lewis meets my eye accidentally, and the sentence reverberates inside of me. Lewis feels ashamed for doing this to me. But she’s got it ass-backwards; it’s I who should feel ashamed of doing this to everyone else. I do.

“I want to go back to space, but there’s no way Marissa would be okay with that,” Martinez mumbled. “I know it sounds crazy; who’d want to go back after this?”

“And you probably won’t anyways, because of the court marshalling,” Lewis said, guilt in her tone.

“I, personally, am glad that space will be over forever,” Vogel said. “I will work close to home, spend all my time with my kids.”

“Here here,” Beck said, holding up a mock wine glass. Vogel clinked imaginary glasses with him.

I could agree with that sentiment. Never again would be too soon. Pass the explorer torch to someone else. Then again, why explore at all? Who wants to go to to Mars! There’s nothing there!

“What else happened today…” Martinez clicked his tongue. He looked at me for a split second, and I knew it was going to be about me. We are supposed to be sharing today’s feelings, so let’s hear it.

I feel like I’m choking.

“I worried about you today, Mark” he said. “I saw him staring out the window again at Mars,” explaining to the rest of them, “and I just can’t think that that’s good for him.”

He’s talking about me as if I’m not here, to put distance in the situation. I’m supposed to be offended - it seems offensive - but honestly I’m just relieved. The idea of being unobserved appeals to me. Maybe it will be easier to hide the shame that is suffocating me inside out.

“It bothers me too,” Johanssen admitted, twisting her hands. “Why would you want to do that? I don’t want to stare at the Hermes. I just want to be gone.” She laughed smally, and added “It’s not anyone’s fault, by the way. You’re all great -”

“We know,” Martinez said, quietly but cocky all the same.

Don’t presume that Mars is the same as the Hermes, I think angrily to myself. You were not suffering; you were all here together, without me. You didn’t have your spouses, but I didn’t have _anyone_.

“Today I was thinking that it is unfortunate that Mark has not given us a way to help him,” Vogel said, and is that thickness I detect in his tone? “We just want to help.”

My hands are shaking on top of the table, so I hide them. My chest feels tense, like the hole inside of it has locked up. I’m hanging on every word they say, every syllable, and hate myself for it. I have no right to seek comfort from them; they are dragged themselves through another year and a half of space to come save me. Space seems easy, just sitting on the Hermes, but I know it’s not.

“I feel purposeless on this ship,” Beck was saying. “We went on this rescue mission _for_ Mark, and now we can’t help you, and there isn’t even any more science or things to do. Just endless time, every day.”

That, I can identify with. My whole existence was just one perverse quest to make it to that MAV. Now what?

“It’s bad for us, all this time on our hands,” Vogel said. “Leaves too much time to think. Space is not the place for thinking.” Vogel’s right about that one. It’s bad when you get philosophical sitting in the middle of an endless void, very bad.

I’m selfish, and against my own will I start pleading with someone to help me internally. Can’t they feel how hurt I am? Doesn’t it saturate the air, make it unbreathable with how strong it is?

I couldn’t detect Vogel’s experience until I’d been through it myself. I look at everyone else in turn. Who else didn’t I see?

Commander Lewis. Her eyes are too heavy too. But it was not as bad as mine, whatever it was. Then again, not much could be worse than my trauma of choice.

“I… I don’t want to share all of my thoughts. I’m worried they’d be weird for Mark to hear,” Johanssen offered, lamely.

She’s waiting for some sort of a response from me, but I feel as if I’m turning to stone. My voice is lifeless. “Go on.” I’m staring resolutely at the table.

She looks at me, hesitant, and speaks. “Sometimes, before we found out you were alive, I would think of something and think you would like it. Then, of course, I’d cry, and wish you were here for me to show you. But it’s still happening, because you don’t seem like yourself,” her voice is tremulous again. “You don’t like the things you used to like anymore.”

The empty feeling is sinking into my gut like ice. I drift around here lifelessly, like I’m no one anymore, like I’m empty inside. I don’t care about dogs or the cubs or Mars or botany or rock music or any of it. The empty feeling is the only thing I can feel. I’m certain I’ve died sitting here at the table, limbs turning to stone in front of these people.

“I feel so useless,” Beck starts, and I can’t take it anymore. I don’t know if what he was going to say about me, probably not judging by his tone, but I can’t handle the saccharine emotion-laden atmosphere.

I push away violently from the table, and stand up on wobbly legs. I half-walk half-run to the ladder and practically throw myself into 0g. Half of me wants someone to call out and yell “Wait!”

But no one does.

Ten seconds, and I’m back in my quarters. I have to bounce off the walls of the bunk hallway, because my shaking legs refuse to hold me up. I shut the door and turn the knob, and collapse onto my bed.

I expected the shaking to continue, but instead it stills into something so complete I can barely breathe. Why didn’t anyone try and stop me? I know that’s a stupid thing to dwell on, that they probably want to give me space, but I don’t want space anymore. I want someone to come be with me without me fighting for it; I had to fight for so long. Can’t I be done fighting?

I just want it to be over.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 751

There was a few seconds of silence after Watney left.

“Now I feel bad that it was just about him,” Martinez admitted.

“It wasn’t just about him,” Beck said. “Really, it was barely about him.”

Lewis shrugged, her finger tracing a pattern on the table. “His rescue was not only our mission, it was everyone’s mission. Our mission now is to fix him up and get him home healthy. We’re just focusing on the mission.”

“He feels singled out.” Martinez said.

Beck raised his hands. It had been almost three months, and he was flat out of ideas. “He’s going to do what he wants to do. We can’t spend our lives walking on eggshells around him,” he said flatly.

“We’re talking about our feelings, right?” Johanssen raised her voice. “My feelings are frustration that he’s putting us in this position.”

“What do you expect to do?” Vogel raised his voice. “Sit him down, force him to confide in you? That is not how these things work.”

“What do you suggest?” Beck shot back.

“Stop treating him like he is the sum of his damage. Don’t pretend it didn’t happen, but when it comes up, don’t treat him like a wounded animal.” Vogel crosses his arms.

“So, what, act like it was a bad day?” Lewis asked, a little irritated. “Shrug and laugh along?”

“Yes.” Irritated, Vogel got up and left the room.

“I’m just not of the opinion that minimizing damage is the right thing to do in the long run,” Lewis said crossly, watching him leave.

“Vogel might have a point. He’s going to have the entirety of NASA up his ass once we get back; it might be good to just back the hell off completely. It’s not as if he’s going to fall through the system,” Beck said.

“You know how badly the system sucks,” Lewis said. “He may be the famous Mark Watney now, but he can still damn well fall through the system.”

“This is ridiculous,” Martinez shook his head. “I’m with Vogel. He’s a person, not a project.” Martinez got up and left, too.

Lewis looked between Beck and Johanssen, and stood. “We’ve all got to get to bed, it’s lights out soon.” She marched up and out of the room.

Beck and Johanssen looked at each other, now empty in the rec room.

“This ship sucks,” Johanssen said.

Beck nodded. “Yeah.”

Johanssen sighed and looked down, scooting closer to Beck. “I thought after we rescued him, things would get better. They’re getting worse.”

“Not from his point of view,” Beck gently reminded her. “From his point of view, things are way better. I think we just all pictured it going back to how it was before, even though we knew that wasn’t going to happen.”

“I just don’t know anything about this stuff,” Johanssen said crossly. “Sure, I had depression in high school, but every intelligent girl did. Not like this.”

Beck shrugged. “I’m supposed to be the doctor here, and I know even less. But Martinez is right, he’s a person. We should do what we do whenever someone’s dad dies, or anything else bad happens; just be here and if he decides to talk, he will.” Beck gave a soft smile. “The both of us, we have a bit of a habit of cornering him.”

Johanssen laughed. “You’re the one who wanted to be nosy when he got back.”

Beck shrugged. “NASA had me worried he was going to fling himself out the airlock or something. And… he’s my friend. I’m worried.”

“He did just sit there, weirdly, silently, the whole time,” Johanssen said. “That’s what he does like, all the time.”

“Well, at least tonight, I can’t blame him. We’re talking about our feelings being stuck on the Hermes, but he was in a totally different situation. His feelings won’t be like ours at all.”

Johanssen looked up at him. “What do you think he’s feeling?”

Beck thinks about it for a moment. “Honestly, I have no idea. I mean, I can tell you symptoms. Flashbacks, nightmares, but…”

“That doesn’t tell us anything,” Johanssen finished. “I know.”

“Lets just go to bed,” Beck offers, rubbing Johanssen’s shoulder with one arm. “One way or another, we’ll find out the truth in the end.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 752

I was doing fuck-all in the rec room when Beck entered, again startling the shit out of me. It’s like it’s a game, Startle the Shit out of Watney.

They all hadn’t really talked to me since I stormed out last night, but Beck was brandishing his tablet so I assume this is work related and not him cornering me.

“So NASA emailed me,” Beck declared.

“I don’t like that tone, that’s a bad tone,” I said.

“They want to keep you in three-week observation when you get back to earth. In a hospital.”

I knew it. “Fuck No,” I said, shaking my head. “To observe what? I’m practically healthy. Look, I’m even getting some muscle back.” I flex my nonexistant biceps, grinning.

Beck deadpanned. “Mark, you’re probably still over 50 pounds underweight.”

I rolled my eyes. “We have another 100 days to correct that!”

“That’s not enough time to correct starvation.”

“I don’t need to be locked in a hospital to eat food, Beck. There’s something more.”

He turned to face the wall, looking down. “They want to put you through a battery of therapy and psych evaluations.”

I don’t know what Beck looks so down about. This isn’t surprising. “Of course they do, I’m surprised I haven’t had more already,” I said, stirring the cereal in front of me without eating it.

“To them, the moment you step off the ship, you represent amazing, unprecedented behavioral science. NASA has been telling me to encourage your cooperation.”

“Well can I not cooperate?” I ask, hopefully. “Can I just ignore them?”

“Unfortunately, no. It’s in our contract that they can keep us as long as they like should they deem us unhealthy, and they have deemed you unhealthy.”

“Isn’t that why we have things like ‘medical proxy’ and, I don’t know, ‘freedom and liberty?’” My voice is whiny, and as per usual I don’t care.

“You signed that away when you signed up for Ares III. We all did. We would have been held a couple days anyways, it’s standard procedure. Hell, we’ll all probably be held weeks.”

“Is there a reason NASA’s stopped delivering me orders, and delivers them all through you?” I grumbled. “I followed their orders perfectly reasonably on Mars.”

“One, you did _not_ ,” Beck said, “And two, they think you’ve had enough of being ordered around through a computer. Venkat, actually. He’s trying to give you a break by making me deal with all of your shit.”

“Thank you Venkat,” I said, leaning back in my chair. I knew I liked that guy.

Beck looked around, and realizing that no one was with me, sat down next to me.

Oh Jesus, what am I going to say to Venkat when I see him? I haven’t really talked to him outside of business since Iris failed. Didn’t want to talk about it when I knew it could all end. But I’m on the Hermes now, and I haven’t emailed him, have barely thought about him. Barely have thought about anyone or anything outside of myself since getting here.

The realization drops more shame into my gut like sinking stones. Pain hits my chest hard, and I close my eyes.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 752

It’s family time again. I don’t want to go, I want to call the whole thing off, but explaining myself to Lewis would probably take more than just attending the damn meetings will, so I decide to just go and sit there quietly. Besides, the part of me that wants help hopes eternally, and I can’t quite bring myself to take that hope away.

Dinner is again a quiet affair, but not nearly as awkward as it was the first night. I’m glad that this is working for them. It’s good to know that they, at least, won’t have to collect all their marbles again once they get back to Earth.

“I assume the conversation continued after I left the other night?” I say, in between bites of food.

Lewis purses her lips. “Not for long. We just decided to go to bed after. It… I know everyone needs their privacy, but we’re selfish.” She gave a thin smile. “I know I’m supposed to say ‘do whatever you need to,’ but it stung that you felt the need to run away instead of talk to us about it.”

In my head I was saying _you have no idea, all I want to do is talk about what’s bothering me, it’s all I think about_ but what came out was “Can’t a guy have some space sometimes?” My cocky grin completed it too, and my heart sank because I knew it was so characteristic of me that they wouldn’t look any deeper.

They sort of looked at me blankly. “No, Mark, you can’t,” Beck said slowly. “I mean, you _can_ , but you were never a privacy sort of guy before.”

There was some silence where everyone looked at me, and the part of me that wants help was drinking it in. I wish they could know how I was feeling and say what I wanted them to say without me having to explain it. But what was it I wanted them to say?

_You’re a part of this crew. You’re a part of this family. We’re glad we rescued you._

Because for some reason, I couldn’t believe they were glad they did it. I can only believe that they did it because everyone else did, because it was the thing to do. Because they just didn’t want to be the assholes that didn’t. It wasn’t about me, it was about it just being the right thing to do.

“I suppose I changed,” I mumbled, mouth dry.

“We all have,” Lewis added quietly. She smiled wanly. “NASA warned us this might happen.”

I feel a bit frustrated, and curl my fingers. I’m defensive over being the victim. I don’t _want_ to be the victim, but it irritates me whenever they imply that this has hurt them too, because it’s not the same. Not at all.

It clashes with my sense of shame, because it did hurt them too, and they wouldn’t be hurting like this if I’d just died. If I’d just died, they’d already be halfway over it by now - probably more.

No one is trying to say it’s the same, though, I know that, so I’m not going to correct them, instead letting the hurt vibrate through me.

“Yeah, like for instance, I’m thrilled I’m never going to space again,” Beck joked. “The view is cool, but it isn’t worth it.”

The martian landscape flashed across my vision. The endless expanse of another world, orange sky, flatter horizon and silent tornadoes in the distance. Utterly inhospitable.

“I was thinking today that I’d like to do more traveling, but maybe just on earth,” Johanssen said. “The way normal people do; the kind that won’t kill us.” That sounds amazing; going and seeing green, hot, wet jungles. Everything that Mars isn’t. I smile in her direction, agreeing.

I can’t get that alien landscape out of my head, and I don’t think I’ll ever be able to. It’s seared onto my mind. I’m turning around, taking in every inch of the landscape outside Marth Crater, untouched in every direction except for my footsteps into the distance. The emptiness hurts in the pit of my stomach, emptiness crawling through my body, the same emptiness I felt staring over the horizon.

“I’m not traveling for a long time,” Lewis supplied. “Maybe ever. My kids will be lucky if I take them on vacations.”

“You still want kids?” Johanssen asked.

Lewis dipped her head. “If Robert is still there when we get back. He’s given me no indication of leaving, but…” She laughed. “This is what scares me. Not being in a nuclear submarine during the cold war, of course not.”

“Of course he will be,” Martinez said. “What kind of an asshole divorces an astronaut?” His joke worked, because Lewis smiled in response.

In that moment, a different sort of loneliness started to bother me. I had no one I was coming home to. Everyone was married (or dating, in the case of Beck and Johanssen) but I was coming home to an empty house.

The absolute normalcy of the feeling startled me; this is something that bothered me _before_ I got stranded on a foreign planet. But as with everything from then, it didn’t bother me long.

The way I am now, I doubt anyone will have me anyways.

“Keeping busy helps,” Vogel said. “Makes the time pass faster, gets us home sooner. I have taken up writing in my spare time, although I’m confident the work is bad.”

“Can we see?” Johanssen asked, grinning.

Vogel laughed. “It is in German.”

Johanssen made a face as if to say ‘come on, man.’

“There’s only so much to do with 6 people and 1200 sq. meters of space,” Lewis said.

I wasn’t going to movie nights anymore; after we finished Johanssen’s terrible show, we just went back to playing cards or hanging out after dinner. Sometimes they’d want to watch a movie from their media, but for obvious reasons I opted out of those. Mostly it was just endless rounds of cards, with me unable to focus for long enough to make it through a game without retreating to my bunkroom.

I mean, they could always do what _I_ do in my free time, which is sit in my room and have a fucking breakdown.

“I’m glad we’re having these conversations though,” Johanssen said. “Why did NASA stop them?”

“I honestly don’t know. Probably just thought it was a waste of time, that other things were more effective,” Lewis said. “Obviously, they did not anticipate our present situation.”

Wasn’t that the fucking truth. I scoffed at the comment.

“Watney?” Lewis said.

My response is snide. “NASA didn’t anticipate a single fucking thing about this entire mission.”

Martinez laughed, but the sound was sort of deranged. I suppose that’s the only thing we can do; laugh and pretend it’s not horrible. I joined him.

Lewis smiled thinly. “We can all sit around this table and laugh, but none of us are doing okay.”

Our laughter died, Lewis’s serious tone dragging our feelings to the forefront.

“This heat problem is really bothering me,” Beck admitted. “I know it’s just the Hermes compensating for the tarnished cooling vanes, but I keep thinking about what might happen if it keeps getting hotter. I know it isn’t, that it’s increasing at a linear and safe rate, but…”

You don’t need to talk to me about worrying, Beck.

“This ship is meant to last until Ares V,” Lewis supplied comfortingly. “We are going to get home fine.”

“As a professional at this sort of thing, I recommend not thinking about the alternative,” I say dryly. “Don’t try and solve problems which don’t exist.” Granted, I only did that because there were so many problems that _did_ exist that worrying about them filled my entire attention.

Everyone is silent for a moment.

“Is that how you got through?” Beck asked quietly.

How did I get through?

_“You can kill yourself tomorrow,” I said, feeling the searing pain in my back as I shoveled dirt around the Hab._

_“You can kill yourself tomorrow,” I said, falling asleep in the rover after all my potatoes died._

_“You can kill yourself tomorrow,” I said, trying to flip the rover back onto it’s nose in the martian desert._

_“You can kill yourself tomorrow,” I said, falling asleep in the MAV, sleeping on Mars for the last time._

“I’d rather not say,” I force through my dry throat, blackness pooling in my chest. Beck backs off, finally _someone_ hearing the strain in my voice.

“The time will pass, whether or not you do anything,” Vogel said. “So at least it doesn’t depend on you.”

Beck laughed. “I’m thanking God for that.” Vogel is right, the time will pass whether or not we want it to; we don’t need to make it pass. It’s a fact I sought a lot of refuge in. One way or another, my time on Mars would eventually come to an end.

The blackness took hold of my chest at Beck’s question, choking me, and it won’t leave. It never really does.

Martinez began talking, a new line of thought. “We only got 6 days of Mars, and Mark got a year and a half. I know the circumstances aren’t exactly something to be jealous of, but that must have been so cool.”

No, it wasn’t so cool. Okay, it was, on some level, but day to day my feelings were not ‘so cool I’m on Mars.’ Sol 1, it was cool. Sol 2, it was cool. Sol 3, 4, 5, it was cool. Sol 6, it was a waking nightmare. The nightmare settles into my chest, empty and painful.

Martinez knows that it wasn’t cool, and this is feelings-share-share time, so I don’t respond.

“We all got to be on Mars,” Lewis said. Man, she was like the ship mom, with that ‘be reasonable’ tone. “But… yeah, it does seem cool.”

It wasn’t cool. The entire planet is desolate, and freezing, and empty, so empty it doesn’t even have air. The sight left me breathless, breathless because it stole the air from my lungs and left me suffocating in it’s freezing inhospitable vacuum.

“Weren’t you supposed to be the last one, man, the one with no records?” Martinez laughed.

I know, I _know_ it’s just an innocent joke. Any other day, I would respond ‘yeah, but at least I do something on this ship!’ I tried to, I really did.

But today, right now, I can’t. The blackness is pooling in my chest and they’re all whining about being away from home for a while or whatever while they sat here on this ship, alive, _together,_ while I was trapped in that empty and desolate hell, the blackness reaching up into my throat and drowning me alive.

“I didn’t _ask_ for this,” I spit. I didn’t want to be some famous astronaut record-setter. I just wanted to learn how to grow plants on Mars, so that other people could live there one day, so that we could grow plants in harsh environments and help poor people and further humanity. I _volunteered_ to be the last to egress, I never wanted the fame.

Though, if you asked me before launch, ‘hey Mark, want to be the first Martian colonist?’ I would have answered yes. Because I was stupid.

“We know -” Martinez began to say.

“No, you don’t,” comes my short response. Apparently my brain has decided things are going to my mouth now, whether I want that or not. “You have all moped around for days with ‘I miss my wife’ and ‘I miss homecooked food’ and ‘I’m tired of space,’ like it’s the same fucking thing -”

“We weren’t trying to say -” Beck says.

“I don’t care! A year and a half on the Hermes sounds like absolute heaven, a fucking vacation! The Hermes isn’t trying to kill you literally every single day, the Hermes has _food_ , the Hermes has _showers_ and the Hermes has _redundant life support_ and the Hermes _doesn’t have a floor made of tuber roots and human shit_!” My next words die in my mouth. _And you left me there_.

I notice my voice is at quite a decibel now. At some point I stood up and now I’m yelling at them.

There’s shame, in the back of my chest, suffocating shame, _how can you yell at them like this, they came back for you_ , and something inside me curls and tightens so painfully that I almost bend over with the pain.

“Jesus Mark,” Beck said. “We weren’t thinking about it like that.”

“Yeah you weren’t,” I sneer. “NASA makes it all sound so far away, ‘Mark Watney is cultivating potatoes,’ like I’m some quaint farmer who showers under the wellwater every day and goes to sleep next to their basset hound. I had to grow thousands of days worth of food in the fucking Hab, every damn surface became farmland, and it all had to be fertilized with rehydrated _shit_. The Hab doesn’t exactly have a _backhoe_ , so I had to do everything by hand, with the human shit piling up under my fingernails and between my toes. I had to light hydrazine on fire just to get water, so I got to spend ten hours a day for weeks just casually burning rocket fuel, on a NASA ship, in the middle of this farmland made of human waste, with human shit everywhere, knowing that literally any single second something could go wrong and I’d explode,” I finish, snapping my fingers.

On my next breath, my voice turns desperate. “And to top it all off, I was _dead_. You were all on your way home, without me. You told everyone I was dead. On Sol 13, I realized you were probably holding my funeral, and that since everyone thought I was dead, _nobody would be coming for me_. Humanity had wiped me from it’s fucking pages, like I never _mattered at all. I didn’t exist.”_

I can’t bring myself to say it what’s on my mind. _All that was left for me was to die._ My mouth, furiously hiding the things that matter most.

I immediately wish I hadn’t said any of that, wish I didn’t respond to Martinez’s comment. I wish I’d just let it slide, I wish was hiding in my room right now instead of telling them all that. I wish it never happened. The tight, curled thing in my chest is my sense of self worth and I swear to god it’s turning into a black hole, telling me to _die_ , and I want nothing more than to close my eyes and surrender.

But at the same time I don’t, I don’t regret saying any of it, because something inside me is sick and twisted and I want them to know just how much I hurt, want them to feel it too, right down to their very core, just for a moment.

“That’s not -” Beck tried again.

“Don’t tell me that’s not how it was!” I snap. “You weren’t there, you don’t get to say how it was!” Something primal in me is satisfied in the way that they shrink back, imperceptibly.

Martinez spoke up. “Then tell us how it was.”

I wanted there to be insult in his words, but there weren’t; just a perfect acceptance. Everyone around the table looked at me with perfect acceptance, and I cursed the day we all took fucking sensitivity training.

“Fuck this,” I spit again. I can’t, I _can’t_ tell them I want to die, the harsh words spill from my mouth before I can stop them.

“What?” Lewis asked.

“Fuck this sensitivity bullshit. I don’t want to fucking think about this.” The part of me that wants help is screaming, _please, god, I need help, just tell me I was worth all this_ , but I can’t even open my mouth to form the words.

“Are you saying you don’t want to talk to us?” Lewis said.

“No! No.” Jesus Christ, fuck this, _fuck_ this.

“Then what, Mark?” She pressed, a little urgently.

“I -” I start, not even knowing what I want to say. I want to die, or I want help, I want help even though you guys already turned around to come save me and I know I have _no_ room to ask but I can’t help but ask anyways.

There was silence for a moment as everyone waited on me.

“Mark?” The patient quality of her voice was just too fucking much.

“You fucking LEFT ME THERE!” I yelled, standing again. “You can’t sit here and talk about how you fucking want to _help_ me when you and all of fucking humanity left me on that talcum powder hellhole to die!”

It’s true, what I’m saying is true, but it’s not what I want to say. It’s the closest I can get to saying _I feel worthless_ , but it’s all accusation, so cruel and callous and horrible and I can practically feel myself losing them like water through my hands.

“We came back for you!” Martinez said, matching my volume but so much calmer. “We all came back for you. We didn’t leave you there.” He’s on his feet now, level with me.

“I know! I know, but that doesn’t make it any better!”

“Why?” Martinez responded, loudly, not yelling.

Because fuck, it still _happened_. I don’t know why you did. “I don’t know. Fuck this.” I’m standing, turning to leave the table.

“Mark!” Lewis snapped.

“What, am I disrespecting Family Time?”

“If this is what he needs, we should give it to him,” Vogel sagely said. Oh yes, Alex Vogel, great _knower_ of _things_. I sneer in his direction.

I have no idea what’s come over me, like the anger has taken control of my body. The part of me that needs help is trapped and can’t get out.

“No, don’t worry, I’m done,” I spit, bouncing away and flinging myself into 0g up the ladder before anyone can stop me.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 752

“No, don’t worry, I’m done,” Watney spits, practically flinging himself up the ladder.

They all watched him float away. “Jesus,” Johanssen said.

“Jesus,” Martinez agreed. “So… who else feels like an asshole?”

Beck hesitantly raised his hand, and one by one, everyone else followed suit.

“We can’t stop doing this, though,” Johanssen says smally. “It’s helping us.”

“We can’t just not include him though, talk about destroying crew unity,” Lewis said.

“I’ve gotta believe that this is helping him,” Beck said. “That’s the most he’s said about any of this since we got him back, and that was months ago.”

“All he said is that we’re insensitive assholes,” Martinez said.

“No. Were you listening?” Beck said. “He said a lot more than he knows, I think. He said that he feels isolated from the rest of humanity, even now that we’ve saved him. He said that he doesn’t even want to think about it, so he’s not hiding from us, he’s hiding it from himself. And he clearly, in some part, blames all of us for leaving him.”

There was silence after he finished his speech.

“I don’t think he _really_ blames us,” Beck continued. “But, I mean… imagine if it were you. How would you feel about us?”

Lewis leans back in her chair. “Oh God.”

“We just have to show him that he’s still a part of the team,” Martinez said solidly. “Because he is.”

“Probably would help if he didn’t just stomp out of rooms all the time,” Johanssen said. “That seems to be his favorite way of ending a conversation.”

Beck shrugged. “We can’t force him not to.”

“This was supposed to be the thing that increased crew cohesion,” Lewis said forlornly.

“I think it’s working,” Martinez said, “for _all_ of us. I mean, do you remember how screwed up we all were after he got back, and he just hid in his room for weeks and there was nothing we could do?”

They had all sulked in their bunkrooms, alone.

“Mark’s not the only one who needs to be reminded that we’re a team.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 752

As soon as I’m up the ladder the anger morphs, no longer angry with them but angry with myself.

“So fucking selfish,” I say to myself, pushing myself to the bunk hall. “So _fucking_ selfish.” What the fuck is wrong me? They turn around and sacrifice so much to save me and of course I go and fucking yell at them.

I told Dr. Shields that I was fine, that it was all leftover from Mars and that it would fade on it’s own, but it’s not. The feeling like I shouldn’t have been saved is solidifying into something horrible and familiar, something I lived with every day on Mars. But I don’t want to say it to myself, don’t want to acknowledge it, because that would be more fucked up than even I’m willing to accept.

Flashbacks? Fine! Dissociation? Fine! Nightmares? Fine! All stuff you’d expect. Not _this_.

My arms are pushing me through the 0g hallway but they slow up next to the VAL door attached to the central quarters. My eyes turn, lingering on the window and red handle.

I want to throw myself out of it.

I can picture it so clearly in my mind. I’d just float in, latch the door. The alarms would go off, but by the time the crew came running I’d already have released the emergency lever for the outer door, blowing me and all the air in the VAL clear into space. There’d be no pain. I’d be gone in an instant. No body to cry over.

“What the fuck, Mark,” I say to myself, bending over. “What the fuck. You fought for hundreds of sols to get out of the nightmare and you’re free, you’re free, why are you thinking like this?” I’m pulling my own hair again, bending over, still staring at the VAL window. “What the fuck?”

Because I’m completely fucking fucked up. I’m miserable every day, fucking yelling at everyone around me and freaking out all the fucking time. I’m fucking miserable, and on top of that, I’m not fucking adding anything to humanity right now by being here. If I’m fucking miserable and I make the planet worse by being here, then there’s really no fucking point. I know everyone spent all that time and money saving me, but it’s a god damn sunk cost. Yeah, I should have died Sol 6, but once you’ve realized you fucked up you gotta man up and fix it.

I push away from the VAL, discoordinated, fling myself into the bunk ladder tube so hard I don’t grab the ladder and instead fall flat on my ass into the bunk room hallway. The impact is _hard_ because it’s a 5ft fall but I don’t really notice because the image of me activating the airlock is seared into my mind like a perverse movie.

I lay there for a minute, on the floor of the hallway, letting the pain of the impact reverberate through my already broken body. “Dr. Shields warned us space would fuck us up,” I say to the empty hallway. God, if only I could go back to that conversation, say ‘I don’t want to go anymore,’ back out, go _home_.

 _Think positive,_ I say to myself _. It’s not all bad. Your presence there did an immeasurable amount for science. Even if you die now, it was still worth it, because of the immeasurable amount you progressed science. You probably set martian colonization forward ten years, maybe twenty. And it’s like NASA said, you’re the cheapest martian asset they’ve ever had. Yeah, it’s not the same, but it wasn’t pointless_

Now that I’ve acknowledged in myself what the black feeling of depression wants me to do, the urge to swallow one or two or three Vicodin is back in full force. But I won’t, not tonight, because I know that the feeling will pass if I can just make it to my bed and fall asleep, so I half-stumble half-crawl into my bunk room and lay in my bed, doing my damndest to forget I exist.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 753

I showed up for Family Time the next night. They assumed I was mad at them still, I didn’t correct them, just sat there and let everyone else talk about whatever it is they were talking about. The theme of that discussion was that it was a boring day, everyone wanted more purpose on this ship, hating that there was nothing for them to do except sit and wait. The world’s greatest talents, lazing about with their thumbs up their butts.

I may not have said anything, but I agree. It’s $100,000 an hour up here, and we’re just hanging around with nothing to do. There’s only so much science we can do with the materials we have. Everyone else has resorted to writing up the scientific papers, which we would normally save for after we arrive safe and whole on earth. They’re strong, capable people, and stuck here in space they’re useless.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 757

I’ve wanted to kill myself every day for years now. This isn’t some kind of new feeling. But I thought it would go away on the Hermes, you know? I hung on for the Hermes, built the Hermes up in my mind to be some kind of portal back in time, to the way things were supposed to be. I just thought it would just somehow magically go away once I got on board the Hermes. Because I’m stupid.

Maybe I had to think of it that way, or else I was really gonna lose my mind and kill myself. Maybe I just told myself what I needed to hear to keep going, because we’re animals and animals have a drive to live. Whatever the case, I successfully fooled myself into thinking that the Hermes would somehow fix all the fucked up shit going on in my head.

And of course, I’m really fucking alone now. I absolutely cannot, _cannot_ tell anyone on board, because _the chair_. And after the chair, I can’t tell anyone alive, because NASA will put me in a fucking straight jacket and I’ll never see anything that isn’t four puffy walls ever again.

You know, it occurs to me - how do they expect crazy people to get better if they lock them in a straight jacket in a puffy room to die? That would make even the most sane of people crazy. I was the most sane of people once, and look what being alone did to me.

In any case, I’m fucking alone. There’s no Hermes coming to save me. I have food now, and people, but I can never connect with those people in a real way ever again because those people will turn on me and leave me in a hospital to rot.

God damnit I want to yell, and hit things, but I’m on the Hermes so they’ll hear me if I yell and they’ll hear if I throw things. Guess I just have to be content with sitting in my bunk room, shaking.

How did it get this bad? It feels like I fell apart overnight. Last week I was all right, I guess, talking to people sometimes and spending more than 50% of my time not sulking in bed. Now I’m a total fucking wreck.

But it didn’t just happen overnight. I still feel the same way, pain in my chest, just dragging myself out of bed every day requiring a Herculean effort. Really, I feel exactly the same way I did last week. It’s just that I realized it isn’t getting better, I realized that there’s no savior coming for me this time. I realized I didn’t know what I was holding on for anymore.

I’m sitting in my bunkroom on my bed, with my back against the wall. I lean back and sigh, and the endless weight settles onto my chest. What am I holding on for?

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 761

I’ve been up all night. It’s early morning, probably should go downstairs for breakfast. They already did their glare-at-Mark routine for my outburst the other night. Here’s how it went: they glared at me, Johanssen tried to pry a comment out of me, I ignored them childishly, and after about five horribly awkward moments, they gave it up. If they don’t try again, we should be able to make pointless conversation this morning without too much difficulty.

Luckily, they didn’t. We are able to kick off a hilarious conversation after I think to tell Johanssen how much I touched the Chem Cam.

“You what?” She boggled.

“I touched the Chem Cham. A lot.” I grinned, looking at her.

“You didn’t.”

“I did. NASA wanted me to do your experiments. I picked it up, I carried it around, I even changed the settings.”

She put her head in her hands. “You don’t even know how those settings work.”

“Not a clue. NASA tried to tell me how to do it.”

Her head sinks to the table. “You don’t listen to NASA.”

I’m grinning widely at this point. “It’s still there, on Mars, the way I left it.”

We were able to have an easy conversation all day in the rec room too, everyone else typing away at a desktop computer while I sat in the squishy chair in front of the big window. Mars isn’t visible anymore, but Earth isn’t either, and we’re just a forlorn ship in the cosmic distance.

It was a good day, sitting around chit-chatting. Oh, the huge weight on my chest was still dragging me around and every time I looked out the window I wanted to throw myself into space, but today it wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t make conversation with the crew. It was almost like going to a coffee shop with your friends, except that we were in a tiny room in space. Basically the same thing, right?

—

Because it has been such a good day, I find myself willing to participate at tonight’s Family Time. They were avoiding topics that included me, and I couldn’t tell if that was intentional or just how it worked out.

Listening to them, I find no anger today. They’re talking about the strain of being away from home, and God I wish more than anything in my entire heart that I could just go _home_ , back to the way things were.

“Today has been a good day,” I find myself saying. “Being able to just sit around and talk to someone without an axe hanging over my head is something I missed.”

“If you think that sitting around on the Hermes is peaceful, we’re having different life experiences,” Martinez said. “Being on a mission that went this completely sideways feels like having an axe hanging over my head.”

“It’s not like…” I trailed off.

I don’t think they expected me to actually continue, because when I did, they all leaned in, shocked. “I knew damn well that the Hab was only meant to last 31 days. That the rover was only meant to last 31 days. That the airlocks were only meant to last 31 days. Everything, only 31 days. The water reclaimer, the oxygenator… At any point in time, I was seconds away from certain death. It’s not like that.”

I feel detached from the words, and it’s only because they’re so rote and mechanic that I can get them past the emptiness in my chest.

“On reflection, the fact that it was the water reclaimer and the airlock which broke was a damn miracle. The water reclaimer was fixable, and the airlocks were redundant. But if the oxygenator broke, I would have suffocated. If the Hab tore, I’d have exploded. If the rover broke, I’d be stranded.” I shook my head. “The point is, a broken cooling vane and an unusable airlock door are so minor so as to be insignificant.”

Martinez frowned.“That sounds stressful.”

I know it’s not a joke, but I laugh at the level of understatement happening here. “That sounds stressful, he says.”

“NASA and you guys keep thinking that specific things bother me, like the airlock ripping or the rover being upturned,” I mumble. I look down at the table. “The tough part was every day, just waking up every day and dealing with the fact that I would probably die that day from something fucking stupid. Going to bed every day, knowing there was a serious chance I was going to die in my sleep, because something would fuck up while I was sleeping…”

I shook my head. “Even the good days, when I had pathfinder and living potato plants, I still knew that at any moment something could fuck up and I’d be dead the next second.”

The words felt empty in my mouth, and I’m glad I said them, but instead of feeling better there was just sort of a hollow empty space in my chest.

They all stared at me wordlessly. They probably had no words. What words were there? ‘That’s fucked, man.’ Or ‘I’m sorry, Mark’ just didn’t cut it.

“When you were walking around in our shit and texting NASA astrophysicists about potato plants were the _good days,_ ” Beck said, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. Solid 2/10, those days,” I say, with half a smile.

“What were the bad days?” Was his follow-up.

_A syringe, held over my right thigh._

_Kneeling in the dirt over dead potato plants, leaves crisp with ice._

_Staring at a blinking screen. “Iris decayed in atmo.”_

_Sitting in the MAV, hearing Lewis say “45 kilometers a second.”_

“Very bad,” is what I chose to say.

They looked at me, silently, and I wondered when this became about me. But no, it’s always been about me, it’s been about me since Sol 6.

I wanted to talk to them about that sol. They came back for me, they thought I died, and we haven’t spoken a single word about what happened that sol. I don’t know what happened to them, they don’t know what happened to me. We are completely in the dark. It’s been months and we haven’t talked about when I was gone. God, I just want to fucking know if I matter, if I was even worth it all.

“What did you guys do sol 6?” I ask quietly. “After…”

Everyone looks somber, and it’s Martinez who answers. “We got on the ship, all went to our bunkrooms, and stared at the wall. We spent the entire next day in our bunk rooms, crying. None of us said anything, but we knew.”

“Why?” Beck asked. After a beat, he said “What did you do?”

I want to tell them. Someone knowing about what happened that day would… make it real. I want Sol 6 to have mattered, I want my suffering and pain to _matter_.

The empty landing struts flash across my vision. They don’t leave. They’re stuck there, the beginning of my story. My chest explodes with pain, with emptiness, swallowing me whole.

Things flash through my vision. I’m standing on the hill, holding the antenna to my side, the empty MAV landing struts are all I can see. My knees buckle, I want to fall into the dirt.

Now I’m inside, I feel the uncapped syringe in my right hand, I’m still staring at the landing struts. I’m looking up at the window to the empty MAV base, but my eyes are taking in the entire picture. The empty MAV base against the martian landscape, sand gusting the sand around the equipment, eventually burying it and me with it.

My hand grips the syringe of morphine.

In a split second, the vision is gone, and Johanssen is leaning forward in her seat. Everyone is staring at me, I think Johanssen said something but I didn’t hear it, all I can see is the wind blowing sand against the Hab and burying me inside, the flashback threatening to overtake me.

“Mark?” She asked compassionately.

There was nothing for it, I can’t play that off. “Sorry, I just…” I rub my face.

“You don’t have to tell us,” she says.

I shake my head. “No, I want to, just…” I clench my fist, fingernails digging into my palms. “I didn’t realize you guys weren’t there at first, you know?” I say. “Didn’t realize my biomonitor was broke. Figured if I was alive, then you’d obviously know. I realized that if you were there you would have already gotten me back to the Hab, but I just hoped…” I shake my head. “Because it was so far fetched, you know? You’d never…”

I’m alone on that hill again. The MAV landing struts are empty. There is no one here. They are gone. I am dead. I’m the living dead. I’m trying to focus on them in front of me, I want to tell them.

My nails are hurting my hand, I feel like I’m suffocating, I can barely breathe. “I’m sorry guys, I can’t do this.”

“Don’t apologize to us,” Lewis says, in that hard way because she’s mad at herself, not at me.

I’ve stopped talking, but the feeling isn’t stopping, my chest even hurts where the antenna went right through me but what hurts worse is the hole in my chest, so large and so dark. I know they can see but it doesn’t matter now, I dig my nails into my palm and it doesn’t help _at all_.

The landing struts are empty. I’m alone here. I’m dead.

“Mark, what’s wrong?” Beck asks. Yeah, I know I’m having a flashback now, because Beck’s voice is too far away, I can’t respond, I can’t make my mouth say what I need to say. They’re getting farther, and that cavern is opening up, that cavern that says _you should fall over and just die._

I bring my other hand to my side, the antenna isn’t there but the hot sticky feeling of blood is, the searing pain as I walked back to the Hab.

I launch myself up from the table, want to get away from them, want to go back to the bunkroom and curl up on the bed and shake until I fall asleep.

“Oh no,” Beck says, standing. “Not this time.” He grabs my arm and the warmth shoots through me like sunlight. “What’s going on?” he says, pulling me back into the seat.

My hand finds Beck’s arm, too, he’s so _warm_ but my chest is so cold and empty and the antenna in my side is threatening to turn me inside out. I look up at him, my mouth isn’t working, but he seems to get the picture.

I’m standing on that hill, the antenna in my side, the MAV landing struts empty. This time I want to die, I want to kneel into the dirt but I _can’t,_ I just keep walking through the dirt. Why am I doing that? I want to just fall down and let it be over.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he’s asking, but I can’t get a hold of his voice, can’t focus on what he’s saying.

I can’t find the words. I’m not there, I know I’m not there, but the empty landing struts are stuck in my head all the same. I reach up to my head, pull my hair like I always do. “God Jesus,” I grit out.

“Mark, it’s okay,” Beck switches to comfort, leaning closer to me, the rec room table is small enough that he can lean over and grab my arm.

“Oh god, Jesus,” I say instead, hunching over the table. My chest feels like it’s crushing, I close my eyes and hide my head in my hands, pulling my hair, trying to make the world dark and quiet. It doesn’t matter, because my chest is crushing in on itself because _I am dead, do you hear me? Dead. I just want it to be over._

They’re talking now, trying to talk to me, and I don’t understand what they’re saying anymore and I need it to stop. “Stop, stop please,” I say, and it works, the noises get quieter, still confusing and fraying, God I just want it to be over please can something just make it over.

The images have stopped, and now it’s just the crushing blackness, crushing panic. I must be having a heart attack, because my chest feels like it’s being shredded, everything hurts, and I don’t understand why I chose life, why anyone chose to come save me if this is all that was waiting for me.

Beck puts his hand on my shoulder again and I hear my own breath catch as I feel how warm his hand is. _Please don’t take your hand away._

What’s so pathetic about this flashback is that this isn’t even a bad one, but of course it had to happen here, right in front of all of them like it’s a damn parade. This is what I get for thinking about it, trying to talk about it. I should know better by now.

The crushing feeling backs off, just for a second, and I know it comes in waves. I stand quickly, before anyone can stop me, stumbling through the rec room and somehow hauling myself up that ladder despite the excruciating feeling of my skin touching the composite.

It comes in waves, and by the time I’m into the bunk room hallway I’m leaning against the wall, sinking to my knees, wrapping my arms around my head. It comes in waves, and for a second I completely forget where I am, I’m standing on Mars and those landing struts are empty and I’ve been _abandoned here, alone, to die_.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 761

“Today has been a good day,” Watney says. “Being able to just sit around and talk to someone without an axe hanging over my head is something I missed.”

“If you think that sitting around on the Hermes is peaceful, we’re having different life experiences,” Martinez said. “Being on a mission that went this completely sideways feels like having an axe hanging over my head.”

“It’s not like…” Watney falls silent for a moment.

Everyone expects him to not say anything more, so when he does, they swivel their heads to focus.

“I knew damn well that the Hab was only meant to last 31 days. That the rover was only meant to last 31 days. That the airlocks were only meant to last 31 days. Everything, only 31 days. The water reclaimer, the oxygenator… At any point in time, I was seconds away from certain death. It’s not like that.”

“On reflection, the fact that it was the water reclaimer and the airlock which broke was a damn miracle. The water reclaimer was fixable, and the airlocks were redundant. But if the oxygenator broke, I would have suffocated. If the Hab tore, I’d have exploded. If the rover broke, I’d be stranded.” I shook my head. “The point is, a broken cooling vane and an unusable airlock door are so minor so as to be insignificant.”

Martinez frowned.“That sounds stressful.”

Watney laughs hollowly. “That sounds stressful,” he says. His face falls. “NASA and you guys keep thinking that specific things bother me, like the airlock ripping or the rover being upturned… The tough part was every day, just waking up every day and dealing with the fact that I would probably die that day from something fucking stupid. Going to bed every day, knowing there was a serious chance I was going to die in my sleep, because something would fuck up while I was sleeping…”

Watney shook his head tiredly. “Even the good days, when I had pathfinder and living potato plants, I still knew that at any moment something could fuck up and I’d be dead the next second.”

The rest of the crew stared back at him. “When you were walking around in our shit and texting NASA astrophysicists about potato plants were the _good days,_ ” Beck said, disbelievingly.

“Yeah. Solid 2/10, those days,” Watney responded with half a laugh.

“What were the bad days?”

Watney’s face immediately falls “Very bad.”

Everyone is silent for a moment.

“What did you guys do sol 6? After…” Watney asks quietly, looking at his hands.

Martinez is the first to work up the courage to answer. “We got on the ship, all went to our bunkrooms, and stared at the wall. We spent the entire next day in our bunk rooms, crying. None of us said anything, but we knew.”

“Why?” Beck asked. After a pregnant pause, he asks, “What did you do?”

Watney doesn’t say anything, just hunches over in his chair slightly. In an instant he ages a million years, eyes crinkling and eyebrows drawing together just slightly, enough to remind them of exactly what happened to him.

The crew looks at him softly, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes start darting back and forth at the table, unnerving Beck.

“Mark?” Johanssen asks, leaning forward.

He startles in his seat, he always does. “Sorry, I just…”

“You don’t have to tell us,” she says.

Watney shakes his head, looking determined. “No, I want to, just…” His hand tightens further, Beck can see the grip is white but doesn’t say anything.

“I didn’t realize you guys weren’t there at first, you know?” he says, voice harsh. “Didn’t realize my biomonitor was broke. Figured if I was alive, then you’d obviously know. I realized that if you were there you would have already gotten me back to the Hab, but I just hoped… Because it was so far fetched, you know? You’d never…”

He gasps for a moment, almost so quiet it can’t be heard, but everyone can see the way his nails are digging into his hands and Beck resists the urge to pry his fingers apart.

“I’m sorry guys, I can’t do this,” he struggles to say, but he sounds genuinely sorry.

“Don’t apologize to us,” Lewis says, and her eyes are on her own hands.

It’s when Watney continues to breathe harshly, his grip only getting tighter, that Beck begins to worry.

“Mark, what’s wrong?” Beck asks, leaning forward.

Watney tries to stand, hand on his abdomen, but Beck already abandoned him once and he sure as shit isn’t going to do it again. “Oh no,” Beck says, grabbing his arm and pulling him down. “Not this time. What’s going on?”

Watney’s hand finds Beck’s arm but he doesn’t say anything, now doubling over as if he’s in pain. Beck shakes him slightly, heart twisting in his chest. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Beck sees the way the rest of the crew is sitting stock still, not saying anything, but doesn’t have the time to care.

Watney just retreats from the grip, tries to fold himself up at the table. “God Jesus,” he says, and he starts to shake outright and pull at his hair.

 _He’s having a panic attack. Remember NASA’s advice. Maintain contact, be present_. “Mark, it’s okay,” Beck leans in close, touching Watney on the shoulder.

“Oh god, Jesus,” Watney’s moaning, and Beck just rubs his back while everyone else at the rec table sits stock still and doesn’t say anything while Watney’s entire body shakes under his hand.

“Can we…” Johanssen starts, always the courageous one. “Can we help somehow?”

Vogel’s head is in his hands, rubbing his face, and he looks like he’s a million years old. Lewis is doing the same thing.

“There’s gotta be something,” Martinez says, eyes drawn.

“Panic attacks are something the body does,” Beck said. “No amount of saying it’s okay is going to make it stop.”

Watney’s pained voice comes from between his arms. “Stop, stop please,” he pleads, and Beck makes a shushing motion as everyone falls silent.

 _Should we go?_ Johanssen mouths at Beck, thumbing toward the ladder.

As Beck opens his mouth to say _yes_ , Watney shoots to his feet and runs up the ladder clumsily before anyone can stop him.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 761

The moment Watney throws himself from the table, Beck is on his feet following him.

“Mark!” he calls, but Mark ignores him as he bounces through the 0g hallway and into the bunkroom hall. Beck drops into the gravity just in time to see Mark collapse against the bunk room hallway, falling to his knees and curling up.

“Mark!” he says again, coming to sit in front of him. Mark’s hands are in his hair and he’s staring at the floor, unseeing, and he doesn’t respond to Beck’s hand shaking his shoulder.

 _Okay Chris, maybe it’s a flashback. Makes sense, considering what you were just talking about. Remember NASA’s training. Ground him in the here and now_.

Beck grabs Mark’s wrist, pries it from his head, crushes his hand with his own. “Mark, you’re on the Hermes,” Beck says loudly. “Feel my hand, I’m here with you. See the floor you’re sitting on, feel how hard it is. You’re just having a flashback. You’re on the Hermes. Listen to my voice. Feel my hand…”

After a minute, Mark’s eyes flick up to meet Beck’s, and Mark’s eyes are wide and blue and scared.

“Can you hear me?” Beck asks.

Mark’s eyes flick down to the floor, but he gives a small nod. He’s still shaking like a leaf on the floor, so Beck doesn’t let go.

“What are you experiencing?” Beck asks. NASA training, figure out what he’s experiencing so you can provide contradictory examples.

It doesn’t work; Mark just shakes his head back and forth furiously, still staring at the floor.

“It’s okay,” Beck says instead. He puts Mark’s hand on the composite floor. “Do you feel the Hermes?” He asks.

Mark doesn’t say anything, doesn’t do anything, just shakes harder. Beck can see he’s pulling at his own hair. Beck stomps down his own sense of frustration, ignores his own choking feeling, _we did this to him, you did this to him…_

“Do you feel the Hermes?” Beck asks a little more urgently, a little more desperate.

 _Thank God_ , Mark finally nods, nods again, and pulls his hand away as he looks up at Beck.

“You with me?” Beck asks, a little out of breath.

“Yeah,” Watney says hoarsely. “I’m just gonna…” he mumbles, pushing away from the wall and away from Beck.

“No, wait, Mark,” Beck says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Please, just let me sit with you.”

Watney’s blue eyes look at Beck, and Beck can’t for the life of him tell what he’s thinking. He eventually nods, settling back against the wall, and Beck sits against it too.

Beck reaches out, puts his hand on Watney’s shoulder, feels his muscles relax beneath his hand.

Watney closes his eyes for a moment, and Beck is struck by how _tired_ he looks. Lines wrinkle his face, and Beck knows they’re the same age but for a moment Mark looks like he’s a million years old.

“Don’t keep doing this,” Beck says. “Running from us. You don’t have to talk to us, but you don’t have to run from us either.”

“I _wanted_ to talk,” Watney says with a dry humor, opening his eyes to look sideways at Beck.

Beck smiles at the joke, then says “Look, I’m not stupid. I know that this is happening more than you let on. I know you spend a lot of time just hiding. Please, just let me help you.”

Watney opens his mouth, looks like he’s going to give some sort of smart remark, but thinks better of it. “That would be nice,” he hoarsely says instead.

“I even promise not to corner you for a heart to heart after,” Beck quips.

Watney shrugs. “Right after is the only time I can talk about it,” he says shakily. “Can’t have a freakout right after you had a freakout, you know?”

Beck pauses, then takes his chance. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hell no.”

Beck smiled. “Somehow, that’s what I thought.”

Watney reaches up with his hand, places it on Beck’s shoulder too. “The… the contact helps.”

Beck laughs. “Doesn’t take a genius.” They sit there for a moment, hand on each other’s shoulder.

On a whim Beck pulls Watney forward, turns him to the side, wrapping his own arms around him.

Watney freezes, but Beck doesn’t let go.

Then he feels Watney breathe in, hears him choke back a sob, and Beck definitely _doesn’t_ let go. One by one, every tense part on Watney relaxes, and Beck can feel him pressing in to him. Soon, Watney’s holding on to Beck for dear life, quiet keening noises coming from him, and Beck’s thanking god that he’s getting a chance to put right what he made wrong.

Of course, _of course_ that’s when Johanssen peeks her head through the hole, and Beck just starts mouthing _Go Away Go Away_ and glaring at her. It takes her a second, but she gets the picture, and silently retreats.

Beck doesn’t know how long they sit there holding each other on the floor, but it’s long enough that his back begins to hurt and his hips begin to hurt, but he doesn’t care. Watney’s still holding onto him for everything that it’s worth, and Beck thinks that given what he went through it would be a war crime for anyone to deny him a hug.

Eventually Watney falls still, but still holding on to Beck for dear life. Another ten minutes later he finally unlaces himself, and Beck figures Mark’s just as sore as he is from this hard floor.

Beck knew the first thing he’d do is probably hide his face and run away, so when Watney lifts his hand to do just that, Beck darts out and grabs it.

“No, no feeling ashamed of yourself,” Beck said. “Yeah, yeah, we’re grown men in our forties and you just cried on my shoulder for a half hour, but it turns out it’s okay to feel pain after all.”

Watney looks down, smiling slightly. His face is flushed and Beck can see his red-rimmed eyes. “I’m not embarrassed because we’re both grown men, I’m embarrassed because it’s fucking stupid.”

Beck groans, standing, helping Watney up with him. “I wouldn’t categorize anything about this situation as ‘fucking stupid.’”

“I’ll do what I want,” Watney says petulantly, and Beck wants to contest the issue but knows how to pick his fights.

“I’ll do what I want, too, and that includes putting out the order for everyone to hug you more,” Beck said. “If anyone needs a hug, Mark, it’s you.”

They arrive at the bunk rooms, and Watney just laughs. “See you tomorrow, Chris,” he says, shutting the door abruptly.

Beck stands outside it for a moment, just looking at the door. He wasn’t exactly sure what just happened for Watney, but he hopes it will happen again.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 761

The moment the door closed I turned around, took a rattling breath, and immediately start crying again. Why can’t I just believe they’re here for me, and that they care? Beck just sat on the fucking floor and let me cry on his fucking shoulder for like half an hour, and yet I’m still just so sure he did it because it was the thing to do.

I mean, he went in for the hug, right? But he didn’t sign up for me crying all over him and he didn’t sign up for any of this shit I’m putting him through. He’s gotta take it, though, he’s already on the ship.

Watney, you gotta knit this up, you can not wander around acting like you’re about to fall apart all the damn time. I do keep it together, I’m under almost constant watch and I freak out silently, nobody even knows that I’ve left here or now or that the darkness has opened up in my chest again and swallowed me whole.

But as I lay down on the bed today, I don’t feel quite so empty. I replay the memory in my head, letting Beck’s warm embrace comfort me, just for tonight.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 761

Beck drags himself back to the rec room with his sore back.

“It’s okay, it’s safe now, we can all go to bed,” Beck says, poking his head in the rec room.

“What happened?” Lewis asked.

Beck shook his head. “That’s his business.”

“Johanssen said he was crying,” Vogel asked.

Beck looked indignant. “His business!”

Vogel nodded. “I just wanted to make sure he is okay.”

Oh. Beck didn’t know what to say to that. “He’s better. Oh, and,” he said, turning around to go to bed, “We all need to hug him more.”

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 762

The next morning, Johanssen took Beck’s command seriously. The moment Watney climbed down the rec room ladder, she launched herself at Watney with a hug, not one to dither about.

His reaction was the same. He paused, looking shocked, but when Johanssen kept holding on he locked his arms around her and buried his face in her shoulder.

“Beck said you needed a hug,”

“Yeah,” Watney said, artificially casually.

Johanssen lets go after a few long moments, and to be polite she ignores the way his entire face is flushed.

The rest of breakfast, he has a smile on his face.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 764

I’ve decided to sit in the rec room to do my daily dose of typing today, and Johanssen is again sitting silently with me on her computer. Johanssen is very silent and works on the laptop, which makes her ideal company for getting work done.

She types at the speed of light, hunched over her computer, eyes reflecting the LCD screen. She’s only 27, and I’m 44, and at moments like this I can’t help but think of her as a baby, seeing her unwrinkled face bent over the computer.

The pain in my chest isn’t _too_ bad right now, so fuck it.

“Wanna play chess?” I ask her, out of nowhere.

“You suck,” she says blandly, still hunching over the computer. We tried to play on the way there, but no one was as good as her. She was on her school’s league, in high school and all throughout college.

“You know,” I say mildly, “Mars is really boring. There’s not a lot to do.”

She looked up at me, raising her eyebrow.

“There were only a handful of games I had. But all the computers had the chess game, stock.”

Her other eyebrow raises, shocked, and she begins to get the picture.

“I had a lot of free time and I had to rest in bed a lot,” I continued.

“No,” She gasped, bringing her hand up to her mouth. “You actually learned to play chess?”

I grinned widely. “I beat the computer.”

Johanssen rubbed her face. “You can’t leave me one good thing in this world, Mark?”

“Wanna play chess?” I ask again, smiling.

She rolls her eyes, smiling, pulling out her tablet.

The game progresses quickly. Johanssen is rusty, since she doesn’t play very often these days, and I had a year and a half of solid practice. I best her easily.

“Mark Watney beat me at chess,” she said, staring at the screen blankly. “I can’t believe it.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I’m a lot better than I was.”

“No, it’s not, because you’re Mark Watney and you suck at chess,” she said, rubbing her face. “What has Mars done to you!? What else are you hiding?”

I shrug. “I can recite every line of That 70’s Show? I can play card games against the computer?”

“Did you learn how to play Zork?” She asks.

“Uh, no.” My boredom was impossible to bear, but that game was even more impossible. “I couldn’t even make it out of the forest. I mean, I assume it was possible to escape the forest, but I never did.”

“Oh my god, a year and a half with nothing to do and you still can’t make it out of the forest,” she’s laughing at me now, and I’m frowning for effect, but I’m glad she’s enjoying it.

I’m not able to break the oppressive hold that depression has on me, but seeing her able to laugh and enjoy herself makes me feel better about it all. At least there is goodness in the world, even if it’s abandoned me.

God, I really hope that once this is all over, they are all okay.

—

Melissa Lewis  
Mission Day 767

_“Commander, we need your verbal —”_

_“Launch.” Her heart was tearing in two; this was peacetime, a scientific mission. She shouldn't be losing men._

_The ascent was silent despite the roaring of the engines, the empty seat where Mark wasn't filling the cabin_.

Lewis jerked awake, hands fisted in the blanket. She hadn't had the nightmare but a few times, but every time it shook her.

She looked across her bunk, at a picture of Robert. She wished more than anything she could roll over into his arms.

As it was, she got up and shook herself off. A hot drink in the Rec room always made her feel better after that dream, better than wallowing in her bed unable to shake the feelings.

However, in the rec room she is greeted with the sight of Watney, slumped over the table with his head in his arms, asleep. It can't be comfortable to sleep like that, and Lewis guesses it's not, judging by the way he's twitching and making noise in his sleep.

She shakes his shoulder gently. “Watney, go to bed.”

He jerks awake, eyes flying open, and sits up rigidly. She can see tear tracks on his face, but he quickly wipes them away as soon as she sees them.

“What time is it, Commander?” He asks blearily.

“The middle of the night.”

Watney looks up at her as if he's going to say something, but instead he just nods, and drags his sorry ass up the rec room ladder.

She wishes that he would have talked to her about it.

Watney had made a few attempts to open up to them, but those attempts only happened because of flashbacks, because of situations forced upon him, because he lost his temper. Lewis wished that Watney could give them a chance, a real chance, to help him. Keeping him company and talking to him could help him, but it wasn't going to give him the peace he was looking for.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 770

Had a great conversation today with Venkat about martian topography.

WATNEY: I named a couple of landmarks while I was there.

VENKAT: What?

WATNEY: You can read. I named geographical features of mars that didn’t bear names on the maps. You need to update your maps.

VENKAT: I’m not sure whose in charge of those things.

WATNEY: You better find out, because I spent a lot of time driving through them, I want to see them named properly.

VENKAT: Can you send me your… updated map of mars, so I can get it to the right team?

WATNEY: Does this mean the names will stick?

VENKAT: Depends on if the names are good.

WATNEY: You know it will. Everyone loves me, they think I’m some sort of inspiration.

VENKAT: Yeah, I thought that too.

I named a lot of things and did a lot of science on Mars, and I want to make sure those are fixed up as soon as possible. I didn’t record my cartography, so I’m making sure it’s recorded and set straight now.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 773

When you’re suicidal, you’re not really suicidal all the time. I mean, all the time you think about doing it, but 90% of the time you wouldn’t. You just think about it, like people in shitty jobs fantasize about quitting the entire time they’re at work. It’s just when the feelings catch you hard, in the middle of the night, or when someone says the wrong thing, that the fantasy becomes a possibility. It stays a possibility for a while, an hour or two, but then it fades back into a fantasy again. It’s really only during those windows that you’ll really, actually do it.

That’s how I can still joke around with the crew, shower, get the work that Lewis wants me to do done. Because most of the time it’s just a fantasy playing in the back of my mind, and just like on Mars I can ignore the pain for long enough to do what I need to.

But I know one of these days, when fantasy becomes possibility, it’s going to become reality.

I’ve been… I’ve been fighting it for so long. I was holding out for the Hermes, but there’s nothing I’m holding out for anymore. There’s no tomorrow I can tell myself to hold on for. There’s no rescue. There’s no ‘end.’ The rescue didn’t fix me, and everything is still all fucked

I’m just not sure how much longer I can go on. Every single time fantasy becomes possibility, I think, ‘This is it. I’ve reached my limit.’ But then I talk myself off the ledge, again, and soon enough possibility becomes fantasy again.

I’ve toyed with the idea of stealing Beck’s Vicodin. I mean, I’m willing to kill myself, what’s a little lying and drug abuse? But I haven’t, because I don’t want to deal with it, and when we are stacked on top of each other this way I doubt I could hide the fact that I’m high.

I need some fucking help. I don’t mean that in the sad, someone please notice me way. I mean that I’m a literal suicide risk and if I don’t get some intervention soon, one of these bad days it’s really going to happen.

But you know what? If everything’s fucked anyways, I can give myself permission to ask for help. Or do a bunch of drugs, I don’t know. No, I can’t, because that would be asking for fucking help from people who already gave so much and the point here is that I’ve already asked too god damn much from them in exchange for so little.

I’m getting through the days, aren’t I? Putting up sufficiently convincing conversation for the crew, and sometimes I even forget that I’m a miserable bastard and enjoy myself. We play chess, we play cards, and in between fantasizing about dying I have funny conversations with them. Once I get back to earth I can rent an apartment and I can do whatever it is that I want, be that drugs or killing myself or who knows what.

But it’s all hollow. It’s all a lie, because they don’t know I’m suffering, so it’s all a lie. Everything about this is a lie. I look like Mark Watney, I’m wearing that guy’s body, I’m hanging out with that guy’s friends, I remember what it’s like to be that guy, but I’m not that guy.

Right now, the way I picture it, even if I do manage to escape the hospital and get an apartment in Houston and go back to my life… what would I do? Sit around my apartment and drink all the time? What kind of life is that? What am I holding on for?

—

Rick Martinez  
Mission Day 773

Martinez peered around the corner into the room.

Mark had Lewis’s music - _Lewis’s_ \- on, and he was _singing along_. Martinez’s mouth was already open to give him shit, but just before the words came out of his mouth he heard what Watney was singing.

In a little while from now  
If I'm not feeling any less sour  
I promise myself to treat myself  
And visit a nearby tower  
And climbing to the top  
Will throw myself off

Watney was singing quietly, back to Martinez where he could not see him, standing over a lab table working on something or other, mouth clearly forming every word in the song as if he’d sung it a thousand times. The thought made Martinez’s heart drop into his stomach like stone. His mouth closed, and he remained where he stood.

In an effort to  
Make it clear to whoever  
Wants to know what it's like  
When you're shattered

Left standing in the lurch at a church  
Were people saying, My God, that's tough  
She stood him up  
No point in us remaining  
We may as well go home

As I did on my own  
Alone again, naturally

The lyrics paused for music, and Mark even tutted along quietly with the sound of the guitar. As soon as the lyrics started up again, though, Mark’s voice was harder, and stronger, and there was a bitter edge to his quiet singing.

To think that only yesterday  
I was cheerful, bright and gay  
Looking forward to, who wouldn't do  
The role I was about to play

But as if to knock me down  
Reality came around  
And without so much as a mere touch  
Cut me into little pieces  
Leaving me to doubt

Martinez was now sure the hard, angry edge to his singing was bitterness. Mark turned around in his work, looking down, and he could see the lines etched on his face.

Talk about, God in His mercy  
Oh, if he really does exist  
Why did he desert me  
In my hour of need

I truly am indeed  
Alone again, naturally

Mark hums along with the end of the song, quirking his eyebrow at ‘alone again’ bitterly, stirring a mixture of soil with a wooden stick.

Martinez clears his throat awkwardly, trying to insert himself in the room, and Mark startles.

“Lewis’s music?” He laughs, trying to shake off the haunting feeling the song gave him.

“Yeah,” Mark said quietly, not looking up. “Grew on me.”

Martinez wonders whether or not he should mention the song, wonders whether or not he should mention how he saw the anger and bitterness on Mark’s face.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 778

Possibility became reality again, like it keeps doing, this time in the middle of the night.

It’s hard to resist, knowing that I could just walk through the door and all my suffering would finally be over.

It’s becoming another fucked-up past time, staring at the door to the VAL attached to the main 0g hallway. Picturing what it would be like to throw myself out of it in excruciating clarity.

I tell myself ‘don’t leave your room, Mark,’ and ‘don’t climb the ladder into the hall, Mark,’ but my body just isn’t interested in hearing what I have to say anymore.

I float there for I don’t know how long, hours, just looking out the window with my hand on the door. A few simple motions, and this excruciating pain in the center of my chest would just be gone. They’d finally get to start moving on from me. This whole horrible fucking experience would finally be over.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 780

Fuck. It’s late, I can’t sleep, I’m just rolling around in bed uselessly, feeling knots of depression weave their way in and out of my body. I’m tired, but I keep having horrific thoughts like “What if the Hermes explodes in the night” or “What if the crew regrets saving me?” or “maybe I should go fling myself out the airlock.”

Who needs sleep anyways. I’m getting out of bed, I’m going to watch a movie in the rec room or stare at Mars or do _something_ other than roll around in bed.

When I get there, though, I find Beck and Johanssen sitting very close together, murmuring quietly. Beck looks upset, quite upset, and Johanssen’s hand is on his face like this is a rom com.

I consider backing out of the room, giving them their space. Johanssen’s the only one who could see me, and she hasn’t yet thanks to my newfound powers of stealth. But no, all the food is in this room, and they’re the ones who chose to canoodle in here.

I’m just going to be quick, grab the food, get out…

“Hey Watney,” Johanssen said.

“Hi,” I say, keeping my head down.

“You’re allowed to be in the room,” Johanssen says.

I gesture at her. “You guys looked like you were having feelings - gross - so I thought I’d just be in and out.”

“Gross,” Johanssen laughs quietly. “This from the guy who sulks every day.”

I splutter. “I was left on a strange planet to die! I’m forever broken. You two,” I said, pointing my fork at them. “You have no excuse.”

Beck gives a thick laugh, wet from crying, and now I see why he hasn’t said anything yet.

“Are you okay?” I find myself asking quietly. Why would I ask? Clearly he only wants to talk to Johanssen.

“I feel guilty… for leaving you there,” Beck said quietly. Guess he doesn’t just want to talk to Johanssen.

I shrug. “You know my position on that.” I’m just stirring my cereal now.

I’d leave to give them their privacy, but Beck is turning towards me, like he doesn’t quite want me to leave yet.

He turned his head away. “Lewis was out looking for you. I’m the one who told her to stop.” His voice is quiet, heavy. “I was the first one to say you were dead.”

I put the food down, walk over to where they’re sitting. Constantly feeling guilty has taught me a thing or two about how to treat someone who feels it. “I don’t blame you Chris, not a bit. You did the right thing. I’m glad you did.” I’m sitting in front of Beck now, with Johanssen.

Beck looks down, but not to hide. Beck’s always had a lot of feelings, even if he liked to pretend he didn’t. “I’m having nightmares every night about that Sol.”

“Hey, join the party,” I laugh. “But seriously… do you want to talk about it?”

He shook his head. “No, but…” He’s looking at me now, searching for some sort of acceptance. I want to give it to him, I will, but I can’t help but think that anyone looking for support and stability from me is looking in the wrong fucking places.

“We came back for you, we didn’t hesitate, but we were too late.” He’s gesturing to my entire body. “You’re… We’re the ones who did this to you, Mark. We’re the ones who left you there. I’m the one who told her to do it.”

I hate comforting people, it makes the dead emptiness in my chest grow and take over my whole body. But I’m glad to do it, glad that at least someone can be made to feel better in this entire fucked up situation.

Going off of what I’d be looking for in a situation like this, I grab his hand. “No, Chris. Mars is responsible for my condition, not you. You all did the very best you could. I’ve already told Lewis this, but… I’m glad it was me. I’m optimistic, I’m determined, and I had exactly the right skill set. Anyone else would have died there.” I _should_ have died there, but that’s not the point. The point is that I’m glad it’s me who was broken and not him.

Beck looks at me and I can guess at what he’s thinking. _It should have been me_. None of this is his fault. It was a cruel, horrible act by a sadistic fucking God and that’s all it is.

I thought God existed because he got me through Mars, but if I got off Mars just to suffer like this (and make everyone else suffer too) and now I think that there’s a God and he’s a dick. It was incredible luck that got me off that planet, but what was the point if I was just going to come back to this?

Because Chris Beck is here crying over _me_ , when I’m the one who did this to _him_ , to all of them. If I had just died, he wouldn’t have any of this guilt. He would just be okay, already having moved on from me and living his life. He’d be long home.

He just shakes his head. “I’m sorry I’m even telling you this, you’re the victim, I’m your doctor, I’m not supposed to pile on like this.”

“Beck, uh, dude, you’re also my friend, and last I heard friends don’t just leave each other to suffer.” They’re leaving me, but I understand, really, I do. It’s like I said; the real Mark Watney died Sol 6, and I’m not that guy. The guy sitting here really isn’t fucking worth the food it takes to feed him.

Beck looks away. “Coulda’ fooled me.”

Okay, I know I’m supposed to be comforting, but I roll my eyes. This is unbelievably frustrating. “Oh my God, the lot of you,” I’m looking at Johanssen now too, who isn’t saying anything but I know is riddled with guilt like the rest of them. “You. Did. Not. Abandon. Me. You thought I was dead. I absolutely should have been dead. You made exactly the right call. If you guys didn’t do anything wrong, whose fault is all of this? Mars. Maybe God’s. Not Lewis’s, Not Johanssen’s,” I look at her pointedly, “Not Vogel’s, Not Martinez’s, Not Yours. Okay?”

It feels like tearing my throat out, to comfort them when I so desperately want to be the one being comforted, but I do it. They’re my friends and I’m not fucking leaving them. Unlike me, they actually are good people who don’t deserve to suffer.

And the smile, the small smile on Chris’s face makes it all worth it.

“Fine? Fine,” I say, grabbing my food. “I’m gonna go eat in bed, so you two can keep having misplaced guilt where it isn’t annoying the shit out of me.” I’m up and leaving, but I see a smile crack both of their faces as I haul my ass up the rec room ladder.

My own words echo in my ears. _I absolutely should have been dead._

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 784

On the plus side, I’m getting flashbacks less. Something about being utterly fucking suicidal all the time isn’t leaving me much room to freak out about other stuff. I think I prefer depression; depression lets me lay comfortably on my bunkroom cot in the heat, and I don’t have to move or get up to do anything. Anxiety makes you run around like a chicken with your head cut off, and I much prefer just laying in bed and forgetting I exist.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 786

Beck and Lewis are sitting in the rec room, and it’s Johanssen whose sitting in Watney’s lab with him today.

“So,” Lewis starts. “There’s something I wanted to talk about. About Mark.”

“Let me guess,” Beck said. “He’s spending more and more time in his room again?”

Lewis nodded, _hit the nail on the head._

Beck sighed. “I know. He seemed like he was doing better for a while, spending the evenings hanging out with us.”

“It’s that at Family Time, he hasn’t said a word. He has spoken, what, twice? And now he’s just silent.”

Beck sighed, rubbing his face. “I don’t know what to do, Lewis, I don’t know.”

Lewis pursed her lips. “We all are doing worse. Maybe it’s just being on this ship. We’re all anxious about a lot of things. Hell, even Martinez has been cracking less jokes lately.” They had all been wandering around the Hermes, down, their work lackluster and their conversation unexciting.

“I know I’m anxious because I know Mark’s having a hard time, and there’s just _nothing_ we can do about it.” Beck sighed. “I’ve considered dragging him out of his room, but again, I don’t think doing that would help anyone. I just don’t know what to do.”

Lewis looked down. “Sometimes there’s just nothing to be done, I think.”

“That can’t be true,” Beck says. “There’s gotta be something he wants from us.”

“I know,” Lewis said. “But he won’t tell us. And we don’t know what it is. And we’re doing the best we can, but we have to take care of ourselves too, and this ship. Not to mention that we’re all stuck out here in space, which is not the best place for four depressed people and one PTSD patient to be.” Lewis sighed. “We’re all depressed. We’re not the most well equipped to help him.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 788

Today is Vogel’s music day. Vogel’s music days are always weird, because his music is in all German and none of us can understand it.

I’m sitting in the rec room with everyone, and they’re all finishing up their lunch, and even though it’s Vogel’s music week with his weird german music, they’re all drifting around without smiles on their faces. They all look tired, drawn, and the sight breaks my heart.

“It’s Vogel’s weird music week and you guys are still…” I gesture at them. “How can you hear this and not cheer up?”

“This song is about WWII,” Vogel says, confused.

I shrug. “Yeah, but the rest of them don’t know that.”

The rest of them look at me. “What are we supposed to do?” Johanssen asks.

“Neunundneunzig Luftballons,” I start singing, quietly, raising my eyebrows. For a moment they just all look at me like I’m a freak.

“Neunundneunzig Luftballons…” I sing, louder, and finally someone gets it.

“Neunundneunzig Luftballons,” Martinez joins in, a smile on his face.

“Neunundneunzig Luftballons!” Everyone but Vogel joins in, starts singing, louder and louder, and soon we’re all singing Vogel’s weird german music at the top of our lungs.

“Auf ihrem Weg zum Horizont, Hielt man für Ufos aus dem All…” We yell. “Darum schickte ein General 'ne Fliegerstaffel hinterher, Alarm zu geben, wenn's so wär Dabei war'n dort am Horizont Nur neunundneunzig Luftballons…”

Vogel is squished into his chair, looking harassed by the rest of us.

“bitte für die Liebe Gottes machen es zu stoppen,” Vogel mutters to himself. We don’t ask what he means anymore, because he won’t give us a decent response. After two years of being stuck on a spaceship with Vogel, though, we’ve got a pretty good idea of the meaning.

“We will never stop!” I yell.

Lewis laughs, and we all keep singing. After a minute, Vogel joins in.

The six of us are singing German music we don’t understand at the top of our lungs, dancing in the rec room. We’re together again. We’re happy.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 790

Jesus, jesus _fuck_ I can’t do this.

I’m pacing around the ship, it’s the middle of the night and I can’t fucking sleep because I keep waking up from these damn nighmares crying and every time I do I dream of someone bursting into my room to help make me feel better but they don’t. The fantasy became a possibility again, and it’s taking everything I have not to climb the ladder to go stare at the VAL.

They wouldn’t want me to feel this way. They wouldn’t want me to be pacing outside the bunk rooms, five feet away from the ladder, imagining flinging myself up the ladder and out the airlock. They’ve all said it to me a million times, that they’re there for me and I can’t just throw this on them along with everything else but they _told_ me they don’t want me to suffer anymore.

I’m scratching at my arms but the marks are red, I don’t care, there’s no one here to see, there’s no one here to see the way I pull at my hair and whisper to myself “Mark, it’s okay, they love you, you don’t have to die,” but I do, _I do_ , because I’m the one who kept those fucking fathers from their kids and I’m the Three Billion Dollar Man and I’m the one who accidentally fucking upstaged everyone and I’m the one who was supposed to be happy and healthy and sane when they picked me up but _instead_ I’m a fucking wreck trying to talk myself out of throwing myself out of an airlock.

God, I just want someone to walk out their bunk doors and see me here half crazy, ask me what’s going on and I want to tell them everything. I stare at the doors, trying to get someone to wake up and come out by sheer force of will.

Nobody does.

It’s too much, I can’t do it. I grab the ladder and fling myself up into 0g, away from the doors so I don’t have to stare at them. But there’s the VAL, and then I stare at that instead.

Through the windows, you can see the blackness of space. It’s endless in every direction.

Why am I like this? I escaped Mars! I actually lived, and escaped! Why does my body want so badly for me to walk through that airlock and blow the door? I’m not even in as much pain! There are people, and food, and drugs for me here!

But just because it isn’t as bad, doesn’t mean it isn’t suffering. It was my promise of salvation but it’s a prison of it’s own, walking on eggshells around people who want nothing more than to question me and having to spend every waking minute putting up a front. It’s better, but it’s not good.

 _Mark, for once in your life, stop thinking about everyone else,_ I hear in my head _. Think about yourself. What do_ you _want?_

I want to step out of that airlock. I want that split second, the split second after you’re doomed but before you’re dead, where you can see everything clearly. I want the uninhibited, endless view of space it would give me. I want the peace it offers, the peace of knowing there’s just me and space and nothing else.

I’m floating towards the VAL, and this time I don’t put my hand on the door, I put my hand on the lever that opens it. It’s not really a lever, just a lever shaped button, and nudging it hard enough makes the door open automatically.

I don’t know how long I stand there, hand on the lever. Space is so beautiful. I could open the door, turn around, open the second door. If I’m standing close enough to the second door when it opens, for a split second there will be nothing I can see except the endless beauty of space laid out before me.

An alien feeling of peace settles in my bones, the same alien peace I felt whenever I held a syringe full of morphine above my body. Space isn’t Mars, space is even more beautiful, and vast, and endless.

In that second, everything is different. I’m not just looking at the gun, I’m _holding_ the gun, pointing it experimentally at my head, wondering what it would be like to pull the trigger. Sometimes I did this, on Mars, just held the gun and spent the entire night wondering if that night might be my last.

Out of nowhere Beck floats into the hallway, rubbing his eyes tiredly. It’s 4:02, what the fuck is Beck doing up?

His eyes land on me, and I’m fucked. I’m floating in front of the VAL in the middle of the night, hand on the fucking door handle, and I’m totally fucking fucked.

“Mark?” Beck asks suddenly, eyes flying open. “Mark, what’s going on?” He repeats carefully, too carefully. “Come here and talk to me.”

Fuck, _fuck_ , there’s nothing I can do. I immediately let go of the handle like hot coals. “It’s not what it looks like,” I say, mouth dry.

There’s no fucking way out of this. Either I throw myself out of that door, _now_ , or I spend the rest of my life chained to a hospital bed.

“What is it, then?” Beck asks slowly, and I can see the way he’s slowly floating toward the comm button.

Two emotions war inside me, _no please don’t please don’t corner me just forget about it all,_ and _please hit that button, I need help, I don’t care if I’m locked in the god damn chair just as long as someone will talk to me_.

“Well, for one,” I laugh, the sound is horrid and _wrong_ , “I know I can’t walk in space without a space suit.”

“Mark,” Beck’s reaching out with another hand. “Please, just this once, _talk to me_. I can help you.” His voice is ragged and torn.

_There’s no way out, Mark. You have to make your decision. Stay or go._

If I stay, they’re gonna lock me in a room, or worse, the chair, for the entire flight home. Then I’ll be passed to a hospital where I’ll be locked in a room or locked in a bed, and I’m going to be forced to live out the rest of my life now matter how horrible it is.

If I go, I’ll finally be at peace.

“Mark,” Beck says, eyes pleading, voice ragged. I can see his voice is on the comm button now, sending a message to the rest of the ship. “Don’t. Don’t do it.” He’s sincere, but I know he’s filling the air with words to send a message to them.

I have maybe three split seconds before the rest of them come running in to restrain me. But they’re not going to run at me, not when my hand is on the door and I can be on the other side in three seconds flat.

The temptation to flip that door open and get myself on the other side before they can stop me is overwhelming. I can be in the airlock, hand over the emergency release, and they’ll be stuck on the other side of the door.

But if I stay, they might be there, just like they said.

But they left me there, they didn’t give a fuck when I was on Mars, no one gave a fuck about me then.

 _Maybe they’re right_ , a small voice says. _That they wanted to help, but couldn’t, and they’re just as confused as you and don’t know what to do. They love you, Mark, let them help. They can help._ I know this voice, it’s hope, the hope that got me through Mars.

But that hope let me down. I got home, and it wasn’t fucking rescue. What would help look like now? What can they fucking do? They can’t make me stop having flashbacks, they can’t make the nightmares stop, they can’t make any of it stop.

God, I’m so sick and fucking tired of listening to the small voice.

But the small voice was right. I held on, and _look_ , a fucking miracle happened and I was off that rock in only 549 Sols.

Where there’s life, there’s hope.

They all shoot out of the bunk room ladder tunnel like pellets, one after another, practically bumping into themselves on the way up. But just like I thought, no one runs at me, not when I’m so fucking close to the door. Beck motions to keep them back, and they are confused until they’re not, and I watch their eyes fly open.

“Mark, please,” Beck saying, his voice sounds like it’s tearing. “Just talk to us. You’re just standing there, silently, _please_ talk to us.”

My hand is literally on the lever, there’s no point in hiding anymore. They’re going to find out how I feel either way.

“You say that now, huh?” My voice is shaking like hell. “You say that now, now that I’m a fucking suicide risk.”

My voice hot and anger and resentment, I’m looking at the floor, everything in my body feels carved out and empty and painful but somehow I’m not screaming, just standing there with my muscles locked and my hand still on the lever. There’s adrenaline thundering through my blood but this time there’s no problem to solve, no problem to solve, just a fucking confession to make and a prayer that it will all work out. It’s a kind of suicide I have no experience with.

“We’ve been saying that for months!” Martinez burst out, and I can hear his voice tearing. “Mark, we’ve been here for you the whole time.”

“Not on Mars,” I say harshly, staring anywhere but them. “Not on Mars. Oh, I got supplies, NASA talked to me, but it was all astrophysics, all survival, they didn’t give a _shit_ about me, they only gave a shit about the asset they left behind. Fuck, they even liked it, _they said so_ , I’m the cheapest asset they’ve ever had -”

“Mark, it’s not like that,” Beck said, voice thick, “Please believe us.”

“Oh yeah?” I say, looking up at them, tears in my eyes. They’re all gathered around at the other end of the hall, and there are tears working their way down everyone’s faces. I let mine go, but it turns out they won’t come, the tearing feeling in my throat just redoubles.

“Really? Because you guys _left me there_ ,” My voice is all spit and vile and I hate the noise because it’s not anger that makes me want to die. “You _left me there_ and didn’t even know I died, nobody knew I died, I was wiped from the pages of history, completely gone. You were all mourning my death when you _fucking left me there alive_.”

Their faces are pale, all pale, I’m numb, there’s nothing inside of me but what comes out of my mouth is vitriol like poison, hysterical and loud and it’s not what I’m feeling at _all_.

Lewis is crying, and my heart is scooped out by guilt, but then Johanssen puts her hand on her arm and it’s replaced with a vicious jealousy because I’m the one who fucking lived it and _Lewis_ is the one getting the comfort.

“You know what I did, Sol 6?” My voice is hollowing, getting calmer, and it sounds like the old me but all fucked up, hollow and bitter and wrong. “For a few minutes I didn’t realize you were gone, so as I climbed the hill I got thrown behind I was talking to you like you were there. And then I climb the hill and I see…” Even now, in my rant, I can’t vocalize it, I just gasp from the pain the sight always causes me. “And I just want to die, kneel into that sand dune and die right there.”

“But I don’t, because I decide that dying from oxygen oversaturation is a stupid way to die, so I go to the Hab and patch myself up like we practiced, trying in vain to ignore the fact that it should be _Beck_ fixing me up, not myself. But you know what’s in the same drawer as the topical pain reliever and the Vicodin and the Oxy?”

“The morphine,” Beck says, and his face is white as a sheet.

“ _The morphine_ ,” I sneer. “The morphine, and I don’t know what comes over me, but I grab it up right out of that drawer and pop the cap off. But before I stab it into my fucking leg, I go to the window and look out at Mars. And I’m looking at Mars, at the empty landing struts, and I realize I’m literally already dead.” I’m looking at them, shrugging, voice casual and plain and cold. “No human was ever supposed to see those landing struts, and the fact that I can means I’m literally already dead. You’re already telling NASA I’m dead, NASA’s already telling the world I’m dead, my parents are already mourning me. All that’s left is for me is to correct the fucking mistake.”

“But that’s all over,” Johanssen says. “You escaped, you’re here with us, we can help.”

“No, no it’s not fucking over!” I snap. Man, I’m really on a roll, and something about it being my last moments talking to them makes it all pour out of my mouth. “Listen to me! So I thought fuck it, I’ll go to bed and kill myself tomorrow.’ And then the next day I thought, fuck it, I’m still technically alive, and where there’s life there’s hope, right? But that wasn’t the last time I considered it, oh no. I looked at that morphine every day, every fucking day, but said no, I can kill myself tomorrow. But then Pathfinder worked, and I put it away, forgot about it, things were looking up.”

Finally, the tears start pouring, one after another so fast I can barely catch them and I don’t move my arms to hide, I don’t even try, I just want someone to know how badly I’m suffering. “But then the potatoes die, and everyone thinks the airlock exploded and I just went back to the rover and had a good cry but no, I wish that was what fucking happened. The airlock exploded, and my suit was pissing air, and the airlock was pissing air, and for a solid five minutes I just sat there and watched the air piss out and thought that this time, it was really over and I was _relieved_ , because I was already in so much pain every day and I was _so alone_.”

I’m hunching over where I’m floating but I haven’t stepped away from the door yet, I can feel how red my face is and I can feel the tears pulling off my face and into the 0g but I don’t care. “But I want to talk to someone before I die, so I fix the airlock, and fix the suit, and put the Hab back together, and that took days and days and days, but after the days of labor I said ‘well the Hab works, fuck it, I’ll go to bed and as I’m fond of telling myself at this point, I can always kill myself tomorrow.”

“Mark,” Beck says, face ashen.

“But then Iris failed, and I was really gonna fucking do it. You’ve probably seen the chat logs, no one ever mentions it to me but I know you’ve all seen them. I just didn’t want to let JPL down. All those people worked so hard to keep me alive and I couldn’t spit in their face by dying now, and I was still alive so technically there was hope, right? So I said _I can always kill myself tomorrow_ ,” my voice is sing-song now.

“And that’s when the real fucking suffering started, because that’s when my rations were cut down, way down, that’s when my sanity started to go. And you guys turned around to come get me, but of course we lose contact ten _fucking_ seconds later so I spent that entire year completely fucking alone again. So I really start getting fucked up, I’m starving, I can’t think straight, I keep forgetting where I am or who I am and after a while I start talking out loud, talking to my dead potatoes, talking to the equipment, talking just to hear the sound of a human voice again.”

My voice is thick and wet and desperate and no one is daring to interrupt me anymore. “My depression starts to fade, but it’s replaced by something worse, because now I can’t feel anything, and even when I poke my fingers with the scalpel just to see if I’ll feel it, I don’t. Pain doesn’t hurt anymore, it’s just information on my skin.”

“Oh my God,” Beck says, and I don’t know how much paler they can even get, they’re not even crying anymore.

“But wait, it gets worse,” I say, a perverse smile on my face. “Because I start talking to you guys, like you’re there. I start calling your names, and then I remember you’re not there, and it feels like Sol 6 all over again, every fucking time.” My voice wobbles on that part, but I catch my breath. “And then…”

My eyes turn down, my voice is quiet. “I start to hear you. Not your voices, but sounds, like you’re making coffee in the other room. I come running to see what it was but there’s no one there, there’s no one there every time. So I’m calling your names into the other room, and I can hear sounds coming back, and I pretend that we’re having a conversation but you’re just busy and can’t come around the corner.”

My voice strengthens. “That stops once I get in the rover, replaced by even weirder shit. I start forgetting who I am, where I am, I’m having memory loss problems so bad that half the time I don’t even know where I am, I just know that I have to keep driving _or else_. I can barely read, or do math, or think, I only have enough brain to do one math problem a day and that’s the navigational math to get me to Schiaparelli.”

“I get there, all fucked up, and then I tear that MAV apart and I’ve totally lost hope at this point, I’m completely sure that I’m going to fucking die in the MAV but I’m so happy I don’t care, because my suffering will finally be over.”

I’m crying now, and somewhere along the line I connected to what I’m saying, the angry rant turning into a desperate story and I’m not sure where I am anymore, I just know that I’m finally telling someone what happened to me and I’m praying that they care.

“So when the MAV fucks up I’m not even that upset, I know I’m gonna blow past you guys and die and that’s just fine with me. I consider venting nitrogen to kill myself, but I decide lets at least get past intercept and see how this plays out, and then somehow I’m saved! I’m fucking saved!” My voice is falsely cheery, alarming.

“But of course it’s not that easy, no, turns out all the crazy I picked up with me on Mars followed me home, and I’m still dissociating so hard I don’t know who I am, having flashbacks every fucking day, still having to convince myself not to kill myself. And sure, for a while I thought I’d adjust, right?”

I look up at them, finally, I’m crying, and all I want in this world is for someone to come over and hug me and tell me that it’s _all right_ that I feel this way, that I’m not a completely fucking fucked up for wanting to die even after I’m saved.

“But I’m not adjusting, it’s not going away, it still hurts every day and that’s just _fucked up_. I thought I wasn’t worth saving since I was forgotten on Mars, but that’s how I _know_ I’m not worth saving, because anyone worth saving would be happy, would be overjoyed, wouldn’t have spilled their marbles all over the floor. Being saved doesn’t change the fact that I’m fucking forgotten luggage that you accidentally left behind and went back for, I’m just as fucking worthless as I ever was.”

They all look like they’re going to run at me, please do, please just tell me it’s fucking _okay_. “It doesn’t change the fact that there are children out there who don’t know their fathers because of me, that marriages are being torn apart because of me, that you all have fucking depression from me, that Three Billion Dollars were wasted on me.”

I gesture at Lewis. “Lewis, I can see it on your face, just being _around_ me hurts you. You’re all here now, only now, because you’re fucking living on top of me and no matter how hard I try and insulate you from my fucking insanity every day it still spills over. I’m fucking horrible, I shout at you and bitch at you and act like you’re the problem when it’s _me_ , it’s always been _me_. And yeah, I tried to make it work because of what everyone did to save me, but I’m just fucking miserable and suffering and I just…”

I’m reaching the end of my rant, my voice breaks. “I just want it to be over. I kept saying I could kill myself tomorrow, but tomorrow came, rescue came, and it isn’t stopping. Dying now wouldn’t give Robert Melissa back, it wouldn’t give JPL their time back, that’s all gone. But I’m… I’m still in such fucking pain,” I gasp, pressing my free hand to my chest.

“I hurt every day and I get it, I’m not worth that much, I do. It’s okay. But if I’m not worth that much, can’t I just let my pain end? I’m in so much fucking pain, everything hurts, I can’t even stay connected to reality long enough to have a conversation, did you know that? When you guys think I’m just zoning out, I’m usually having a fucking flashback, or I’ve literally forgotten where I am or who I am, but those are the good times, because the bad times are when I remember who I am and the damage I caused just by fucking being alive.”

And the end of my rant arrives, my voice quiets down. “If I were a decent fucking person, if I were worth it, I would have just knelt into the hill I woke up on and died, before I’d gone to the Hab, or stitched myself up, or NASA wasted billions on me, or any of it. I would have just died like I was supposed to.”

It takes me by surprise when Martinez wraps his arms around me, all the way around me, doesn’t even try to lift my hand off the door handle.

“God damnit Mark, that’s not how it is, that’s not how it is at all,” his voice is thick and breaking, arms around me, slightly under me because I’ve floated upward in the 0g gravity. He pushes me down, envelops me further. “God, Mark, you’re worth all of it.”

I’m hollow inside, carved out, I don’t know what to do. I can’t even make my arms hug him back, can’t do anything but float here and slam my eyes shut and wish to God that I just didn’t fucking exist anymore.

I feel horrible that it came to this. This was supposed to be a good story, Mark is saved, Mark escaped, go team humanity! But it turns out Mark is too fucked up and wasn’t worth saving anyways.

“I need you,” Vogel said, stepping forward. “After you died, Mark, I cried for _days_. When we found out you were alive, I volunteered almost immediately to come save you. I _knew_ the risks. And the whole time you were surviving, I admired you. I know you thought I was weird, and emotionless, but I always admired you for your endless optimism, you always inspired me to stay happy, look on the bright side. And on Mars, no matter what it kept throwing at you, you just… _kept_ going. It inspired me every day. You could have killed yourself, a million times, but you didn’t. I admire you above anyone else, even now.”

His eyes are watering, and Martinez lets go of me but keeps his hand on my shoulder as Vogel walks closer. “I will still admire you even if you kill yourself today. But you don’t have to, because you are important, and valued, and we are here for you,” he’s walking closer and closer to me. “I know you still feel alone, but you’re not. Just give us a chance.”

There’s something empty in me, numb, but I’m shuddering and that tearing feeling is back again in my throat. I don’t know what to feel, don’t know how to feel, I just want to listen to them talk and talk and keep saying these things because it’s all I’ve wanted to hear for years, all I’ve wanted anyone to say, because even though I know NASA and JPL spent three billion dollars to save me, it’s hard to feel cared about when there’s no one here to acknowledge that you’re suffering.

My eyes lock on his, desperate. “I know you came for me, and I know NASA spent all that money to save me, but…” He’s holding my gaze, staring back at me. “It wasn’t because of me, you know? It was just because that’s the thing you do, or because that’s what NASA is supposed to do. It wasn’t about me, Mark Watney.”

“That guy wasn’t worth saving, apparently he wasn’t even worth a half-assed conversation from NASA about how he was doing. And I’m not even that guy anymore! And fuck, maybe I’m just fucked up,” I keep saying. “Maybe not setting eyes on another human for that long just fucks up your brain, and I was gonna be this fucked up no matter what anyone did.”

“I think you set a world record for f-bombs dropped in a sentence,” Martinez says wanly, unable to stop himself even now. He’s my best friend, and I love him for his endless lightheartedness.

Vogel’s standing next to me now, gently setting his hand on mine where it’s resting on the VAL handle. “Don’t do it, Mark,” he says quietly. “You’ve been fighting for so long. Don’t give up now.”

His eyes are boring into mine, strong and pleading. My grip on the VAL handle redoubles… and then it slackens.

I give in, turn my palm up, put my hand in his. His hands are strong and rough, gripping mine firmly, and I think that he’s probably a great Dad.

“I’m sorry I took you from your kids,” I say, trying to smile, voice wobbling.

“I’m the one who chose to stay, not you,” Vogel assured me, his grip tight. “Come on. I think we all need to talk.”

He leads me away from the door, and I just hang on to his hand, not knowing what to do with myself next.

I’m having that feeling all over again, I’ve decided to live, time to solve the problem. Except there’s no problem, no problem for me to solve, nothing for me to do except pick up the pieces of myself that I left scattered all over the floor.

“Lets all go to the rec room,” Beck suggests, and everyone follows him down the tunnel, me last, Vogel not letting go of my hand for anything.

We all sit down but we shuffle seats so that Vogel is sitting down next to me, and even after we’ve sat down he doesn’t let go of my hand. Vogel pulls it forward around the small table and everyone reaches their own hand forward, and suddenly all their hands are covering both of mine, all of us holding hands in the center of this table.

I cast my eyes down, closing them, just feeling their hands on mine and wishing that I could just pause time to live in this moment, all of their hands on mine.

“You were telling us a story, Mark,” Vogel says softly. “Why don’t you keep telling it?”

I laugh hollowly. “That was it. Nothing more to tell.”

“I highly doubt that,” Lewis whispers.

“I really, I’m not…” I open my eyes out of habit, still looking down. “I wasn’t gonna do it, you know? It just has been on my mind, and I couldn’t sleep, so I… I just was gonna look, you know?” I say, knowing damn well that they don’t know. “I wasn’t gonna do it. It’s not that important.”

Johanssen and Martinez look confused, I imagine they have no fucking idea why suicide would cross my mind, but wisely they’re just staying silent and listening.

“Mark, it’s not just important because you might have died,” Beck says slowly. “It’s important because you’re important. We don’t want you to suffer. We thought we were doing the right thing, acting like everything was normal, giving you personal space to deal with things your own way. We started Family Time again because we didn’t think it was working, yeah, but we didn’t know you were hurting this much.” He laughed. “We didn’t think a guy who hadn’t seem humanity in years could be such a good actor.”

“I wasn’t trying to fool you guys, I was trying to fool myself,” I mumble. “I knew that I’d be fucked up when I got home, but I just… wasn’t prepared.”

“Stop saying you’re fucked up,” Beck says. “You’re not.”

“Yes, because it’s perfectly normal to try to throw yourself from an airlock when you just spent 18 months trying to save your own ass,” I say harshly.

“You know, NASA told me this might happen,” Beck said. “Told me to keep an eye out, because you might be suffering in ways you aren’t sharing, they said. Actually, they told me you’re probably hallucinating up and down the ship. I knew you were suffering, but again, we didn’t know…” he trails off, rubbing his forehead. “And that’s on us,” he says hollowly.

“We’re not gonna make the same mistake twice,” Martinez said, determined. “You’re gonna have me around 24/7 now, whether or not you like it. I’m even gonna follow you to the bathroom.”

“Not if I’m there first,” Johanssen says, voice wet and hard and determined. “You’re never getting out of my sight again, Watney.”

The emptiness is blooming into something warm, not burning hot, just warm and uncomplicated and _peaceful_.

“What about the chair?” I ask.

Beck scoffs. “If you’re under 24/7 watch, I don’t think that will be necessary. The chair is there just in case you’re physically fighting us. Haber was psychotic for a day and a half, swore to god that he’d be fine if he went out the airlock.”

“I mean…” I say, eyes downcast. “I get pretty confused sometimes. I usually hide in my room for that.” The shame at that admission hangs over me like a cloud.

“One, in the state you’re in Johanssen can take you,” Martinez said, “Two: dude, do you want to be restrained?”

I cock half a smile, taking his point, and shut up.

“Someone’s gonna have to sleep next to him tonight,” Beck said. “Those beds are tiny.”

“I have an idea,” Martinez said. “How about we move the beds to the gym? It can fit two mattresses in a row, and it’s in 1g.”

“It’s a little far from the other bunk rooms,” Lewis tutted. I’m watching the situation unfold, completely surreal. They’re all sitting around planning, planning how they’re gonna keep an eye on me and help me.

“I’ll stay with him, sleep right in front of the door,” Martinez said. “I know, that’s not terrific security, but consider this.”

He turns to me, eyes boring into mine. “Mark. Do you promise if you’re upset or considering leaving the room, that you’ll wake me up first? You don’t even have to talk to me, just wake me up so I can make sure everything is okay.”

I’m taken aback by the intensity in his gaze but I don’t want to, I don’t want to agree, I don’t want to make myself obligated to ask for help.

“Mark,” he says, hands squeezing mine.

The warm good thing in my chest is unfurling, and a “yes” escapes my mouth before I can resist it any more.

“See?” Martinez says, to Lewis and me. “It’s gonna be okay.”

Lewis frowns, but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ll stay up with him tonight,” Vogel offered, “and we can find a solution tomorrow.”

“Nah, I’ll do it, I got a good book I’m reading anyways,” Martinez offers. “Come on Watney, we gotta move the beds.” He disentangles his hands and stands up, stretching.

I stand up, following him, everything surreal and confusing. I feel numb, and empty and torn, but there’s something warm in my chest as I’m following Martinez to the bunk hallway. He throws open the door and throws my bedding in my hands, grabs his own, and in seconds we’re awkwardly carrying our hammock cots to the gym.

He puts down my bedding, pushes me over to my bed, and then puts down his. I watch him do this wordlessly, the feelings swirling around my chest too confusing for me to handle. I think I’ve dissociated again, because everything feels so, so far away, so distant, like I’m watching a movie.

“Mark,” Martinez is saying. We’re sitting on the cots now, on the floor. “You’re going to wake me up if it starts to hurt, right?” His hand is on my shoulder, and it’s so warm. How did we get on cots on the gym floor? Right, the plan.

“Remember how I said sometimes I get confused, right?” I’m saying. “Did I say that?”

“Yeah, you mentioned it,” he said quietly.

“It’s happening again,” I say, hearing my own voice from far away. “Beck says it’s called dissociation.”

Martinez’s hand reaches up for the wall comm. “Beck, Mark says he’s dissociating. What should I do?”

“You know that feeling when you space out and you don’t know where you are?”

“Yeah”

“It’s basically like that, but more, and you can’t un-space-out no matter how hard you try. So just, uh, hold his hand or something.”

“This can’t be real science,” Martinez says, shutting the comm off. “I always knew psychology wasn’t actually science.”

Per Beck’s instructions, he grabs my hand and suddenly I feel warmth connecting me, warmth from the center of my chest reaching to his hand.

“It’s been a really stressful day,” I’m saying.

Martinez just looks at me warmly. “Just go to bed, Mark, all right?” he’s saying. “It’ll be better tomorrow.”

I lay down per his instructions, don’t fall asleep immediately, just stare at the wall while Martinez props up his pillows against it and starts flipping through his tablet.

Eventually my eyes fall shut, and _eventually_ I fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know. Mark Watney, suicidal? It’s nuts. I didn’t want to write a fic with him being suicidal, I specifically did not. It just didn’t seem like the thing that would happen. But the more I read, the more I thought about it, the more I realized how badly he is suffering. Here’s the situation:
> 
> Almost a solid 20% of PTSD sufferers attempt suicide, just from the shitty quality of life flashbacks and anxiety gives you. On top of all of that, Mark probably has an identity problem, because of the solitary isolation. And on top of all of that, he’s fooled everyone into thinking he’s halfway okay, so he’s flying under the radar and thus feels forgotten and ignored. On top of all of that, he’s confronted daily with the damage that being rescued did to the people he loves. On top of ALL OF THAT… he expected this to be his salvation, and it’s not. If the Hermes isn’t saving him, what will? What is he waiting for?
> 
> P.S. Family Time is a real thing. I did not make that up for this story.


	7. Chapter 7

Crew  
Mission Day 791

The Ares 3 crew, sans Watney, gathered in the rec room at 7:00 on the dot.

“So, what did NASA say?” Lewis asks.

Beck rubs his eyes, bleary and tired. “Was up all night talking to Dr. Shields. NASA wants us to put him in the chair, but he took a chance on us last night talking to us, and I’m not going to negatively reinforce that by tying him to anything. They’re just concerned their prize is gonna get damaged,” he snarks. “Mark was right about them. Okay, okay, uh…”

He’s swiping through the tablet he always has on hand. “NASA sent along a couple of recommendations in the beginning, right?” Beck said. “I took the most respectful, hands-off approach before. Here’s their hands-on, touchy feely suggestion - if only we’d listened to this two months ago. ‘Patient may be hiding suicidal ideation or self-injurious tendencies, and may view the Ares crew as ‘outsiders.’ Provide constant companionship, a constant and steady stream of emotionally open discussion, to promote feelings of unity.’ They mean it, too, they’re recommending someone constantly be following him around, like we are now, asking him how he’s doing and how he’s feeling.’”

“For once, NASA was right and we were wrong,” Vogel says heavily.

Beck sighed. “Looks like it.”

“Does NASA elaborate?” Lewis asked, knowing full well they do.

“Yeah, uh, here,” Beck said, swiping. “I’m going to paraphrase, but basically assign someone to be Watney’s guardian for a given day, have them ask about his emotional state, if he looks distressed, touch him on the hands or shoulders to establish physical contact, reiterate that we’re here. Really reiterate, to the point where we feel like we’re being repetitive. Validate his feelings. Let him know that whatever he’s feeling is okay, and he’s not wrong for feeling it. Tell him we accept him, no matter what he’s feeling.”

“Is this really the extent of what medical science has to offer?” Martinez says.

Beck shrugs. “There’s a specific behavioral therapy that can help Watney, DBT, but I’m not trained in it. Like, at _all_.”

“That’s it? No meds? No nothing?” Martinez asked.

Beck shrugged. “PTSD is hard to treat. All we have access to on board this ship that treats it is hugs and group therapy.”

“So we should continue Family Time,” Lewis said.

Beck nodded. “Yeah, but we should probably just focus it on him. He’ll feel singled out, but as he thoroughly demonstrated, he doesn’t feel that he’s getting enough attention. It’ll be okay.”

“Speaking of, I’m gonna get back to my post,” Martinez said, standing up. “Hugs, touching him and good feelings. Got it.” He climbed up the ladder and was gone.

Everyone else sat around the table, bleary eyed, nobody having gotten any sleep the night before.

“Day off,” Lewis says tiredly. “Everyone gets the day off.”

“I was gonna do that anyways,” Beck said.

Johanssen mumbles “What are we gonna do?”

Lewis shrugs. “It’s Watney’s day. Maybe we can all watch a movie together, his choice.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 791

I wake up, my sleep having been peaceful for once. For one blessed, holy moment I don’t remember what happened last night, I’m just warm under blankets and everything is okay for a minute.

But I turn my head to see Martinez sitting up next to me where he was last night, clearly tired, and it all hits me like a fucking train.

I groan, slam my eyes shut, and roll over where I can’t see Martinez or the gym and I can pretend for three fucking seconds that I didn’t spill my marbles all over the fucking Hermes.

“Watney?” Martinez asks, reaching his hand over and shaking my shoulder.

“Lets all just pretend last night didn’t happen, yeah?” I’m mumbling. “Lets pretend it’s a normal day on the Hermes, before anyone left me on Mars, before anything went wrong. You’ll make a fart joke, and I’ll make a fart joke, and Lewis will get frustrated with us and Beck will call us children.”

 _“Dude_ , you totally reminded me, I prepared some bad puns like _months_ ago for you,” Martinez jeers, picking up his tablet and swiping through.

“Lets just pretend I didn’t get abandoned on Mars, then spill my marbles all over the Hermes,” I’m still mumbling, now to myself more than anything.

“I got it - this one’s topical,” Martinez said. “What do you call a crazy spaceman?”

I roll over to look at him, and he’s deadly fucking serious with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“What?” I say, tired as hell.

“An astro-nut.”

I groan, boy do I groan as I roll over and sit up. “My God, Martinez, have a little sensitivity.”

“You hate sensitivity.”

Yep, yep he’s right, I really do.

I’m sitting up, he’s sitting up in our little sleepover fort made out of the gym where he was when I fell asleep. The blankets are everywhere, the gym equipment has been smashed in one side of the room.

“This mission has gone so completely fucking sideways,” I say. “Dude, we’re sleeping on the floor of the _gym_.”

 _“You_ were sleeping, I was watching you have nightmares,” Martinez said. He banged his fist on the comm button. “Room service!”

“Room service?” I gape at him.

“I was up all night, stressed out,” he says, shrugging.

Lewis’s reply was acidic. “You are only getting away with that because of what happened last night.”

“Who wants to take the next shift? I’m exhausted and want to sleep,” was Martinez’s reply.

“I’ll do it,” Beck said. “NASA will probably make him talk to me anyways.”

I slide back under the covers. NASA. NASA has to be told, and briefed, and they’ll have questions, and just like I thought I’m never ever going to be a free man ever again. I should have just done it, thrown myself right out the airlock. I bet if I sprint, I can do it right now. No, I’m not going to do that, I’m just whining.

“Get out of my bedroom, Watney,” Martinez says, now shoving me.

I look up at Martinez, and my voice is thick. “Martinez,” I mumble, “I’m… I’m sorry…”

“It’s fine,” he says warmly, putting his hand on my shoulder. It makes warmth seep through my body. “I was happy to stay up and keep an eye on you. And now _Beck_ can keep an eye on you, so if you would…” he gestures to the door, where Beck is waiting.

“I want a shower,” I say, pulling my sore body out of the bed. “What time is it?”

“Like, 10:00,” Beck says. “Martinez said you slept really well, you probably needed to get some of that off your chest.”

I don’t feel good. I feel horrid, a walking fucking embarrassment because I’m being accompanied to the shower like a fucking eight year old.

“Wait here,” Beck says, before stepping into the bathroom first.

I wait outside, and I hear the sound of him digging through drawers. When he steps out a moment later, he has a box of all the sharp things in the bathroom.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I say, irritation swimming in my heart. “Chris, I’m not some fucking emo fourteen year old.”

“No, but I’m not taking any chances,” Beck said, eyes downcast. “We already screwed up once.”

The anger doesn’t build up, though, because as soon as it rises it’s replaced with complete and utter suffocating shame. My head is down as I step into the shower, avoiding his eye.

It doesn’t escape my notice though, that, for all the embarrassment and the shame that is tearing at my chest right now, last night’s depression is noticeably absent. There’s a lead weight in my chest, and I feel like I’m dragging it around, but it’s not the knife cutting in my chest, it’s not the urge to fling myself out of the airlock.

Oh, I know it’ll be back, but the temporary reprieve makes me think that letting Vogel lead me away last night might have all been worth it after all.

Beck is still standing there when I get out of the shower, right by the door. I step out of it and I can’t meet his eye.

“Mark,” he says softly, also putting his hand on my shoulder. If they’re going to keep touching me, then maybe it was a good thing I spilled my marbles everywhere. “Based on what you said last night, you probably feel pretty horrible about this whole situation, but don’t. Think of it like we’re worried, _we’re_ the ones who screwed up, and now we’re all freaking out and overcompensating,” he said, smiling. “You’re the one who has to deal with _us,_ not the other way around.”

I know that a real conversation is everything I want, but right now I don’t have the energy, the emptiness in my chest too profound to form words. I just nod tiredly, still not meeting his eye.

“Well, it’s your day, what do you want to do?” Beck said. “Lewis suggested we watch a movie, your choice.”

I shrug. Every day at this point I’m usually back in the rec room staring out the window, or I’m sitting in my lab poking around writing my paper and fussing with my plants. “The lab,” I mumble, heading that direction.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 791

Jesus, maybe I should have flung myself from that airlock after all.

The entire day Beck sat in the room with me, didn’t even leave me alone to go grab me food, followed me as I walked through the ship just to use the fucking _bathroom_.

It’s not that he’s that annoying. He’s silent and unannoying, actually. It’s that I need to be followed, that I’m such a risk that if they take their eyes off me for one god damn second I might do something fucking insane like throw myself out of the ship. And Jesus, I wish I could say ‘back the fuck off, nothing will happen,’ but that would be a lie.

I’m so ashamed of myself. Yeah, the piercing pathetic lonely depression is gone, but it’s been replaced by a sense of shame so severe that I feel like I should throw myself out of the airlock as a civic duty.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 791

The shame gets so hard that it’s physically painful, a knot in my chest, and I can barely breathe around it. I want to go lay down but Beck will follow me, and he’ll probably question me, and then I’ll have to explain myself, and I don’t want to explain myself, so there’s really no point.

Beck is sitting across from me on his computer, so close yet so far away.

Maybe I do want to explain myself to him. They’re watching me around the clock. They said they want me to bother them with this. But they didn’t explicitly say it last night, except for Martinez, who made me promise to wake him up if something happened. Does the same thing go for the rest of them? Does this count as ‘something?’

He’s right across this table from me, and I want to get his attention, but don’t know if I should. Don’t even know what I’d say.

I think I prefer my original depression to this shame. I wish I’d just kept my issues to my-fucking-self until we got home, and then I could just keep all this to myself like decent people do.

Beck looks up for a moment, and notices me staring at him. “Watney?” he says, sitting up. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I mumble, and even to myself my voice sounds strained.

Beck nods knowingly. “I’m pretty sure that’s not true. Come on, Mark,” he says softly. “I’m right here. You don’t need to bear this alone.”

“I’m just…” I grind out, twisting my hands together. God, the words are hard to say, they feel like they’re being dragged out of me. “I’m just fucking ashamed.”

“You shouldn’t be,” Beck said, “But I’ll humor you. Ashamed of what?”

I gesture around us. “Needing fucking babysat.” I push the words through my teeth.

Beck reaches out for my hand, and the physical contact chases away some of the poison in my chest. “You don’t need it, Mark. By your own admission, you struggled with wanting to kill yourself on Mars, a lot. But you didn’t. I know you’ll make it through this too,” he said, smiling. “We’re babysitting you because we’re worried.” Beck heaved a sigh. “Look… we couldn’t take care of you then. But we can now. Just let us.”

The words made something in my chest unwind, just a little. “Okay. Okay.” I’m tired of saying those words, over and over, _okay, okay_ , agreeing over and over to hold on just a little bit longer.

I pull my hand back, fold my arms on the table, and bend over to put my head in them. It’s calm and dark in my own arms. I’m 44 years old and I’m just so fucking tired. Mars made me tired, turned me from a cheerful, youthful person to someone who feels almost a thousand years old. I can’t even remember who I was before all of this started.

“Mark?” Beck asked.

I make a groaning noise from in my arms.

“Come on. Talk to me.”

“It’s gonna be like this now, huh?” I grumble from in my arms. “Always pestering me?”

“Yeah, buddy, it’s gonna be like this now,” I hear him say. “We stopped ourselves from pestering you before and look how that turned out.”

I poke my head up. “You stopped yourselves?” Something uncertain and hopeful is wriggling in my chest.

Beck’s being careful to maintain eye contact. “Yeah. We wanted to bother you every ten seconds, but, uh, we didn’t want to smother you.” He laughs. “Didn’t you know?”

I remember a couple weeks ago. “I was feeling smothered,” I admit. “It felt like I couldn’t get two feet onto the ship without you jumping down my throat.”

“Well, that probably wasn’t the thing to do,” Beck said regretfully. “But however annoying I was, NASA wanted more. They wanted me to sit you down for psychoanalysis twice a day.”

I laugh. “That probably wouldn’t have gone well.” The frank conversation is helping my chest unwind, and I’ve propped my chin up on my arms.

“No,” he agrees. “But you seemed like you were doing better, so we all tried to stop pestering you.” Beck looks away, his face gets flushed. “I’m know you know this, but, uh, we get together and gossip about you a lot.”

I snort. “No shit, really?” My voice is thick with sarcasm.

“I know,” he raises his eyebrows.

I tip my head down again into my arms. My chest is still hurting, the poison shame is still suffocating. “What do you guys say?”

“At first, we’d just sit around and mope, talk about how we wished you’d open up to us,” Beck said. “But… uh, after a while, we started bickering. People took sides. Martinez, Vogel and I wanted to just back off and give you space, Johanssen and Lewis wanted to stage an intervention for you. Turns out they were right in the end.”

“ _Johanssen_ wanted to stage the intervention?” I say, propping my head on my arms again. “But she’s half robot.”

“I know, and I’m the big touchy-feely one, but this mission is bringing out weird things in all of us,” Beck said. “I just was irritated by the way NASA is treating you like a project, giving me commands every ten seconds to snoop on you.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” I ask suddenly.

Beck looks at me, and his answer is quiet. “I want you to talk to me, Mark. I can hardly expect you to tell me the whole story if I don’t.”

The tight, wound thing in my chest unwinds _just_ a little, and the release of pressure shudders through my body. My eyes start to water, and I’m confused, because nothing even happened. I duck my head in my arms again to hide it. “Sorry, I’m tired,” I say by way of explanation.

“So Johanssen was right after all,” I mumble, laughing.

Beck leans back, snorting. “I should know by now, Beth is always right.”

 

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 791

“I told them,” Johanssen griped, sitting in the rec room. Across from her sat Lewis, who was reading something on her tablet from NASA but not really paying any attention. “I told Vogel that leaving him alone wasn’t the best thing for him.”

“What’s done is done, Beth,” Lewis said tiredly. “We know now, and we’re fixing it.”

Johanssen pulled in a breath. “I know, it’s just…” she rubs her face. “We almost lost him, _again_.”

“But we didn’t Beth, we didn’t,” Lewis says. “You just gotta keep telling yourself that. We didn’t lose him, then or now.”

“Is it working for you?” Johanssen asked wryly.

Lewis smiled sadly. “Not really.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 791

They’re still in the lab when lunch time rolls around.

“Come on, Mark, lunch,” Beck says, standing and closing his laptop.

I’m actually managing to get some work done right now, so I reluctantly close my laptop. I know that after lunch, after seeing them all, I’ll be back to a state of mind where I can’t get anything done.

As we float down the hallway to the rec room, dread pools in my gut. I don’t want to face them, not all at once, not after what happened last night. Beck’s floating over the ladder, ready to descend.

“Mark?” Beck asked, sensing my hesitation.

“Just…” I look down at the hole, see the rec room floor. “Give me a minute.”

Beck floats over, grabs my hand. “It’s gonna be okay.” Again the warmth heats up my entire arm, my entire chest, and I hold on tightly.

“Where’d all this touchy-feely crap come from?” I laugh, pathetic and wobbly.

“You know you want it,” he teases. “I’ll be in there.” He lets go, slides down the ladder.

I float there alone, just for a minute. They’re all going to be down there, and they’re going to look at me, and I’m going to have to say something that justifies what I put them through last night, what I’ve put them through all this time. That shame is still in my chest like poison, suffocating me, making it hard to breathe.

I grit my teeth, clench my hand, and climb down the ladder behind Beck.

They do all look at me when I come down, but they’re not white as sheets, they’re just looking at me like they’re happy to see me.

“Hey, you don’t normally do lunch,” Johanssen said warmly.

“Bossy Beck made me.”

“I didn’t make you nuthin,’” he defends. “I just said ‘come on’ and you followed me. We could have hid in the lab for lunch if you wanted.”

I shrug. I’m here now.

And they’re all sitting in front of me, looking at me, and I remember what I did to them last night.

My voice is strained. “Guys…” I put my hand in front of my face, shielding my eyes, as if that’s somehow going to lessen what I fucking did to them. “I’m… I’m so sorry -”

“Stop,” Lewis commands. “Don’t do this, Mark. Don’t be sorry. We’re the ones who should be sorry.”

“How?” I exclaim, still standing. “How are you the ones who should be sorry?”

“Well, _one_ , we left you there,” Martinez said. “We thought you were dead and we didn’t mean to, but it happened. Two, we should have… we should have noticed! We should have seen how hurt you were!”

I frown. “I was trying my very hardest to hide it.”

“We should have still known,” Beck said. “You asked me when you were on the benzodiazepines, after withdrawal, if you could read the reports about you. I said no. You know why? Because they all said this would happen. The worlds top psychologists wrote this report that said ‘Mark’s gonna feel exactly this way, and he’s gonna hide it,’ and I still couldn’t see it.”

“No, Chris, no,” I sit at the table. “It’s not like that. I’m really not that bad, most of the time.”

“No?” He laughs hollowly.

I swallow. “Look, it’s… it’s not that bad all the time. Most of the time I’m really… I’m bad, but I’m okay,” I say lamely. “Me hanging out with you guys, playing cards? That’s not a lie. It’s just sometimes someone says something, or something happens, and it just sets me off.”

“And then you get up and go off on your own?” Johanssen guessed.

I nod. “Yeah. And now I’m not allowed to do that, so you don’t need to worry,” I say, trying to set them at ease. A knot hardens in my chest; why is it that even now, I’m the one fucking comforting them?

“You’re a fucking liar, dude” Martinez says conversationally, eating whatever rehydrated food he’s chosen for today. “But it’s all right, I forgive you.”

He’s right, it was a lie, a lie right through my teeth. “That’s what you do when you talk about stuff like this. You lie.”

“Maybe other people do, but not on this ship,” Lewis said sharply. “Lies can get people killed.”

The sentence reverberated in my head. My lie almost got me killed. But it’s _my_ lie, and it’s _my_ life.

She’s still staring at me, hard. “You’re mad at me,” I say, narrowing my eyes at her.

Lewis sighed, dropping her fork. “Not really. I know I shouldn’t be. But yeah, I am.” She shook her head. “If you’d just reached out to us, at _all_ , this wouldn’t have happened.”

My heart is torn, torn between fire and anger because _how dare she be mad at_ me _when I’m the one whose suffering_ , and _she’s absolutely right because it was shitty of me to hide this, it was shitty of me to even feel this way in the first place._

There are starving children in Africa that Three Billion Dollars could have saved. I met them when I was in the Peace Corps; they deserve it a lot more than I do.

“I’m mad at myself too for not seeing it,” Lewis admitted. “It’s the second time I’ve made a huge mistake on this mission. I was telling Beck the other day that even though you’re the famous Mark Watney you can still fall through the system, and hey, _look_!” She said, falsely light.

 _The famous Mark Watney_. What a preposterous, ridiculous phrase. It’s right up there alongside _Depressed Mark Watney_ in terms of sheer ridiculousness. But this is the world we live in.

“I should start keeping count,” I say dryly, “Of how many times I say it’s not your fault. What do you think we’re at? Fifty? Sixty?”

“Nah, closer to 80,” Martinez says.

Lewis huffs, and starts eating her food. Beck’s put something in front of me, mac and cheese, and I start in on it slowly.

God, I’m so tired, I just want to be on earth. I don’t know what home is, since my home was sold out from under me and I’m a completely different guy than I was when I left, so I’ll settle for a real bed on earth under blue skies.

“I just want to be on earth,” I say tiredly, between bites. “I’m so fucking tired.”

“Hear, hear,” Vogel mumbles between bites of his own.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 794

It’s after hours, and Martinez, Beck and I are playing cards in the rec room.

On the way here our favorite game was Egyptian Ratscrew because it’s fast paced and you get to slap people’s hands. Martinez, Johanssen and I would play well into the night. But we can’t play Egyptian Ratscrew because bossy-Beck wouldn’t let anyone slap me for fear of breaking my hand or something.

We decided on playing poker, using kitchen silverware as chips.

“This is what our lives are reduced to,” I say, trying to guess Martinez’s cards. “Three doctorate astronaut scientists, playing poker out of sheer boredom.”

“I don’t know about you, but I got plans later,” Martinez said, looking at his hand. “I’m gonna chat Marissa.”

“Not when you sleep next to me you’re not,” I say, watching Beck place a card.

“Not like that!” Martinez laughs, putting a card down. “Get your head out of the gutter.”

“What about you, Beck, any exciting plans?” I ask, placing my own.

“Johanssen has been in her lab all day,” he said. “I figured later, I'd go over there and try to... woo her.”

“Hey, you know what you should do?” I bust out. “Take her back to the 1800's when that phrase was last used.”

Beck deadpans. “Your comebacks. So witty. So clever.”

The table’s been laid, and my hand is crap. Martinez wins, cackling, and takes the entire armful of silverware.

“At least he gets to woo someone,” Martinez said. “There hasn’t been any wooing in anyone else’s life for years.”

“Yeah, hey, Beck, on that topic, what’s 0g sex like?” I ask, getting a new hand.

He frowns. “Hard.”

“Ayyy,” say both Martinez and I.

He frowns deeper, reddening. “No, really. You can’t get a lot of leverage. Sex is about…” he makes some sort of hand motion, clapping his hands together. “Pushing, you know? You can’t push against each other in 0g. You just float away.”

“So hold on to a wall bar!” I say.

“She just bumps against the wall, and then the angle is bad. We usually just end up having sex in her bed.”

Martinez is shaking his head. “0g sex is an option and you just have sex in _the bed._ Of course.”

“There’s a reason people have sex in beds!” Beck defends. “It’s easy!”

If I were sulking in my room by now, as I would have been before the other day, I would have missed this quality conversation. Perhaps it was a good thing they caught me, and assigned me bodyguards, because listening to Beck try and talk himself out of this situation was truly quality social interaction.

“You’ve heard the cliche, _it’s only worth doing if it’s hard_ ,” I laugh. “Hey, men are like that too! We should tell Johanssen.”

The way Beck’s entire face flushes, all the way down to his neck, is priceless.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 798

I feel bitter resentment for what’s been taken from me. Years of my life I’ll never get back. The person I was, destroyed. I left for Mars as Mark Watney, Astronaut, and I came back completely fucking broken. I signed up to see the stars and be gone for years and all that astronaut stuff, but I didn’t volunteer to die, come back to life and put my mental health through a shredder in the process.

Fuck you, Mars, for taking that from me.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 801

The next week or so passed by without remark. That poisonous suffocating feeling of shame did back off, to be replaced with - you guessed it - wanting to throw myself out of the airlock. It isn’t acute, though, so I’m just getting through it.

Things have mostly fallen into the routine they were in before, with me waking up ten zillion times during the and us playing cards and wasting time, except that now I have people following me literally everywhere I go.

They keep asking me if I’m okay. I’m glad that I don’t have to lie anymore. That doesn’t mean I’m particularly helpful though. Here’s how those conversations go:

Them: talk to me  
Me: no  
Them: Mark really I’m here for you talk to me  
Me: really no

Eventually they give up and just hold my hand or hug me or something. Secretly, that’s exactly what I want, that’s all that I need.

Now that I think about it, it more than passed without remark. I didn’t have a single world-shattering flashback, not one episode of forgetting where I am, not one episode of trying to run away to the VAL and stare out the window. Oh, I know that won’t last forever. It feels like my body is just giving me a reprieve, and it’s going to be back.

The knot in my chest feels a little better too, just a little looser, enough to allow me to breathe again.

Just like they said, they’re always there with a smile now, a hand on my shoulder, a kind word. They’re literally _always_ here for me, just like they said.

Vogel told me a while ago that it’s going to be okay. Maybe he’s right.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 804

It’s been Martinez’s music rotation, but now it’s Lewis’s again. I get an uninterrupted week of her fucking disco music. When it was her rotation six weeks ago I got through it by just sitting in my room and sleeping, a lot, and zoning out so hard I didn’t really notice what song was playing.

Yeah, I had everyone’s music available to me on the Hab, but hers was by far the most obnoxious. _Yeah_ , I did listen to it. I had nothing else to listen to. She brought the most songs, anyways. I’ll admit to you, Log, that I even kind of like her music now. It’s fun, and easy to dance to, just like she said. When my theme song came on, I even told them, sang it in their faces at top volume. _Stayin’ Alive! Stayin’ Alive!_ They covered their ears, acted like my voice _wasn’t_ a gift.

I got 5 days of reprieve, but I guess it’s over.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 804

**Earlier That Day**

For most of the day, I’ve actually enjoyed Lewis’s music well enough. It was playing quietly in the background, as it has been this entire trip. I’m standing in my lab, standing over my computer typing things, occasionally looking at my plants. The music isn’t annoying me, I’m not even paying attention to it because I’m finishing up this paper and if I really get through enough I can have it all done by the time we get back to Earth.

Today’s scientific experiments were quiet. Johanssen was my babysitter today.

“Watney,” she said, and the sound made me jump back.

She’s looking at me. She said my name. Okay, type a few more words, finish my thought, look back up at her.

And I noticed the song.

 _Upside down_  
Boy, you turn me  
Inside out  
And round and round

—

I’m humming Diana Ross as I get into the airlock. It was what was on when I woke up this morning, it was stuck in my head so I put it on repeat while I suited up.

I hit the big button that says ‘depressurize,’ still humming the tune.

Suddenly I’m staring at the airlock window as both it and I fly away from the Hab. The potatoes are visible through the window, rich and alive against the cold and dead martian world.

It’s the last time those plants will ever be alive.

I’m still flying back, and I know these are my last moments too. My helmet is going to shatter on impact, I’m going to explode before I even have a chance.

I hope I actually die this time.

But fuck, as I land I’m so fucking confused, and dazed, and somehow even though the helmet is shattered the airlock kept most of the air inside.

I come to, hear the hissing

My forehead hurts, it’s bleeding, my faceplate smashed into it, and I come to with Diana Ross still stuck in my head. Why aren’t I just fucking dead? Why couldn’t I just fucking die?

I scream, and yell, and plead, but again I decide not to die. Not to live, exactly, just to live long enough to talk to a human again.

My hand reaches for the sealant pack instinctively, but the hole is too large to fix with just the sealant. Animalistic adrenaline pushes me forward, and I figure out a way to seal my helmet with my suit.

I’m trapped in that airlock, and my suit is repaired, but this airlock is losing pressure. Soon, this airlock won’t be usable. This suit isn’t usable either, it will piss away all my air in just four minutes.

No one needs to tell me; my potatoes just died, they’ve been freeze dried in the Martian vacuum. I can’t make any more, those bacteria just died with it. I can’t make any more food, I can’t make enough water to make the food with a Hab that just exploded. All my water boiled off. I don’t have enough potatoes to last until Ares IV. I’m not sure if I can even fix the Hab.

The scene changes.

—

I’m standing in the desolate Hab. I’m standing amongst the dead potatoes, cold and icy and desolate in the martian night.

I fall to my knees, because it’s just too much.

I clench dirt in my hands, but all I can feel is the EVA suit curl beneath me. The dirt is held together by tiny particles of ice that break apart when I touch them. Something about the desperation of the moment makes it so poetic, feeling the water shatter in my hands like glass.

For once, I don’t resist the urge to cry.

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 804

“Watney,” Johanssen said. “Come take a look at this, I can’t figure it out.”

She stares at the computer, and when she doesn’t hear anything she looks up.

Watney is staring past her where he stands, gaze fixed on the wall. It doesn’t look like he heard her.

Just as she was about to ask _what’s up_ , he crashed to the floor, landing hard on his knees.

“Watney?” Johanssen yelled.

She stood up, and saw him staring at nothing, shaking on all fours, bringing his hand up to his forehead. “Watney! Mark!”

He didn’t respond to either name, instead putting his hands on the ground and shaking harder. He gave absolutely no indication he could hear her.

Johanssen ran to the radio, and said “Beck, come quick,” and ran over to him.

“I’m dead,” he whispered. “My potatoes are dead.”

Oh my god, he’s having a flashback. This one is bad, he’s not reacting to her touching him.

“Mark, you’re not on Mars anymore,” she said, kneeling down in front of him. “Mark,” she said, realizing her voice was too quiet. “You’re on Hermes, with us!” she raised her voice.

He grasped at the floor with his hand, and she realized he couldn’t hear her at all.

—

Something’s wrong, I can hear the music. It’s not stuck in my head, I can actually _hear_ it.

I’m staring right at the dirt, but I’m also staring at the floor of the Rec room in Hermes. I can feel the despair, I’m going to starve to death because I don’t have enough food, but I’m looking right at Johanssen in front of me. She’s moving her mouth, I can’t hear her, all I can hear is the song.

“The song,” I scrape out, covering my ears. God, just make the disco music _stop_.

Someone else ran to turn it off, there are more people behind her, I can see feet. But I can’t hear it; everything is silent. Mars has no air to carry sound.

The potatoes are dead, leaves crystalline. They fall apart when I touch them, like tiny icicles. Each leaf crumbling is tearing my heart into shreds.

Beck was in front of Johanssen now, saying something to me. The rest of them are on the ground behind them, unreal, like a dream.

What is real is me standing up, hearing my potato plants crunch under my feet as I put the Hab back together. Each one makes me flinch, and grimace, and I cry but I don’t stop because after I put the Hab together and talk to someone it’s all finally going to be over.

 _What’s wrong_ , Beck’s mouth is saying.

 _I want this to end_ , I try to say, but I can’t hear anything. I want this to fucking end. I wish that antenna had fucking killed me, I wish I’d died on the hill, I wish I’d killed myself Sol 6.

I don’t want my last moments to be on this rock. This vacuum sealed, freezing dirt rock But where the fuck do I want my last moments to be? Does it even matter? Earth is incomprehensibly far away. This rock is all I have now, and I don’t want it.

All I feel is blackness.

I’m pretty sure the crew in front of me is some sort of a dream.

I think I can tell what they’re trying to say. _You’re not on Mars._

No, they’re real, because I keep moving back to the rover and now I’m frantically searching for the morphine as if I can’t hear them. _I don’t know what’s happening_ , I try to say.

I bring my hand up to my chest, staring at the frozen potatoes in the inky night of Mars. My home is destroyed. There is nothing for me anymore.

 _I can’t breathe_ , I say, trying to talk but hearing nothing.

I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and I pitch forward.

Suddenly the Hermes becomes real, Beck becomes real as he’s standing in front of me, flickering into my vision like a bad Netflix connection. But just as quickly, it flickers back to the wasteland on Mars.

—

For a moment, I forget again, holding the morphine vial in my hand, powering up the Rover and Pathfinder. I take the entirety of my EVA suit off slowly, with care, knowing it’s the last time I ever will.

—

Arms wrap around me and I’m on the Hermes again; Beck is squeezing so hard I think I’m going to suffocate. But it’s good, it’s good, it’s hot and warm and good. I grab him back, the contact pushing away the tragic sight of the plant life turned to ice.

Beck, please don’t let go.

I keep forgetting his arms are around me.

—

The sun is setting, and it’s beautiful on Mars, beautiful through the big wide windows on the Rover. I’m holding the morphine vial.

I’m tired of having last moments. I just want this to be the last last moment, want my struggle to finally be over.

—

I remember where I am again, can feel my mouth moving, can feel myself fighting Beck.

He’s holding me tightly, and he’s talking too, there’s a lot of noise,it’s frantic and confusing and I can’t handle it. My mouth is moving but I can’t hear what I’m saying.

Beck stops talking, makes eye contact with me, and realizes that for the moment, I’m back. He’s saying something too, _It’s okay, it’s okay._

But I’m not back, the blackness is the only thing I can feel. I can’t see the sunset but I can feel it, the last moments sitting in my body like death.

Instead of feeling warm like a person, Beck feels like heated stone. But it isn’t Beck that is stone, it’s me, an animated statue with no life inside it.

 _Mark_? Beck’s mouth is saying.

It’s then that I become aware of what my mouth was saying. “I just want this to be over.”

“Mark, it’s okay, you’re on the Hermes,” Beck says, kneeling in front of me, taking my hand.

I’m looking at his blue eyes, breathing harshly, feeling my heart pounding inside my chest. “Don’t play that song ever again,” is all I can force out.

Mars is a memory again, but the blackness is not, my heart is pounding harshly against my chest it’s pounding so hard that my chest feels like it’s going to crack in two.

“What song was it?” Beck looked up, asking the room. I want to answer him, but my throat is dry. I can’t say it, _I can’t._

Johanssen is looking at the computer console. “Upside Down by Diana Ross.”

Even hearing the name tugs at something inside of me, and for a split second I see that airlock again.

—

I’m in the upturned airlock, I’m punching the sides, I’m shouting so hard my throat is tearing.

“You know what!? Fuck this! Fuck this airlock, fuck that Hab, fuck this whole planet!”

“Seriously, this is it! I’ve had it! I’ve got a few minutes before I run out of air and I’ll be damned if I spend them playing Mars’s little game. I’m so god damned sick of it I could puke!”

—

“It’s stuck in my head,” I grind out. “It’s been stuck in my head all day. It’s the last damn thing I’m going to hear before I die,” My voice is picking up speed, “I am going to die on this _fucking_ rock, _alone_ , with nothing but Diana _fucking_ Ross to keep me company!”

I didn’t notice myself speaking in the present tense, raising my voice, but everyone else certainly did.

“You’re not on Mars anymore, Watney,” Lewis said, kneeling down beside me, voice strong, her hand on a spot Beck’s arms didn’t reach.

“Come on, Mark, you’re with us,” Johanssen says, and her voice is breaking, and of all the things _that_ gets through to me because I do not want to make Super Nerd Beth Johanssen cry.

I reach out for her, extending my hands towards her, and she reaches out and grabs them back.

“It’s okay,” I say to her and to myself. “It’s okay. Don’t cry, it’s okay.”

Johanssen smiles, watery eyed. “Yeah, Mark, you’re with us, remember?”

I nod my head, but it comes in waves.

“Oh God,” I say, pulling my hands back and winding them in my hair.

The potatoes are all dead. I’m in the new EVA suit, walking around amongst my potatoes, and they are all dead. Their corpses are frozen like ice statues and I know that they are going to stay this way for all time, even after the martian landscapes bury them they’ll still be here as my buried legacy even if no one ever finds them again.

I check in with reality again to see that Johanssen has pried my hands out of my hair and it’s her hands I’m squeezing so hard they’ll hurt.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say, pulling my hands away, but she grabs them back.

“Mark, just let me,” she’s insisting.

The next wave comes, and I stay with them this time but the death ricochets through my veins and I just want it all to be fucking _over_.

“Tell us what’s happening,” Beck commanded.

“I’m in the rover,” I feel my mouth say, and I see the rover.

I’m sitting in the rover. _I’m holding the morphine in the syringe. God, I just want to inject it._ I’m holding it between my fingers decisively. _I just want it to be over._

The image pushes back again, she’s holding my hands. “Why don’t you?”

I remember. “I wanted to talk to my parents before I die,” I grind out, the images pressing against me. “But I had to rebuild the Hab to use Pathfinder. And if I could rebuild the Hab, then I could live another sol.”

“You were right to wait, Mark,” her gentle voice. “You made it. You’re on the Hermes now.”

She’s right, I’m on the Hermes. I didn’t die that night, or the next, or any of the nights after. I made it. My feelings turn to anguish, shuddering on the floor of this lab. “I am on the Hermes,” I say out loud, and it feels fake, the sentence feels wrong and fake and _wrong_.

“You are on the Hermes,” She says, strong and with me.

I’m aware now that Becks arms are still around me, I’m leaning into him, everyone’s crowded around me, reaching out for me.

I lean forward into the center of the huddle and Johanssen catches me, and Beck’s arms follow me, and Lewis’s grasp follows me and the entire huddle contracts around me tighter, which is exactly what I wanted.

“Group huddle?” Vogel says, always perceptive.

I just nod, _yeah, yeah_ , closing my eyes against the feelings which are still coming in waves. But it’s hard for me to get lost on Mars when they all press in around me, shoving as close to each other as they can. We’re all in a tight circle now, and if we were under a blanket it would be a sleepover party.

I can feel myself still shaking in the center of their huddle, but they’re all holding onto me for dear life.

“You’re on the Hermes, you know that, right?” Johanssen says from next to me.

I squeeze my eyes shut as another wave of despair hits me like a battering ram. I don’t respond, just gasp, curl over slightly, and she holds me up.

A beat later, I can respond. “Yeah, but I’m feeling it, exactly what I felt then, like it’s on repeat,” I pant, shuddering.

“You have us this time,” Johanssen says. “Let us help.”

I fold up my knees, hide my head in them, wrap my arms around my head. “It’s horrible,” I grate out. “The potatoes died,” I say, to give them context for the breakdown I feel coming.

The next wave hits, and my voice turns hysterical. “I can’t make it to 898. I’m dead, again, just like Sol fucking 6, except now I’m starving and suffering and I’m half out of my fucking mind, I wish I’d just killed myself on Sol 6 so I didn’t have to go through all that pointless fucking pain before I died.”

Their hands all land on my back, warm, and they anchor me in the present. “It’s already in the past,” Beck’s soothing voice says. “Just breathe, breathe out through your stomach. With me; in, out. In, out…”

I listen to him, breathe in and out, and it works for a moment before the next wave crests and all my muscles seize up once more.

“You lived, Mark. You’re alive. You’re not on Mars. You didn’t die. Feel my hand?” Beck says, prying one of my hands from my hair and holding on to it. I’m squeezing for dear life. “Hold on as hard as you want,” he says.

I look up at all of them around me. I lived. They’re with me. I’m on the Hermes. Their big blue and brown eyes are all staring at me.

The next wave hits and I shudder, slamming my eyes shut again.

“Mark,” Beck says, putting my hand on the floor. “What do you feel there?”

The composite is smooth beneath my hand. “The Hermes,” I whisper.

Finally, agonizingly, the feelings ebb away, and I’m left torn up and shaking like a leaf on the hard floor.

“Jeez, the Hermes needs softer floors,” I joke shakily, adjusting my position on the floor.

“Back with us?” Johanssen asks softly.

I groan, moving my sore body. “Yeah, yeah.” The Hermes floor hurts all the more because I’m nothing more than a pile of skin and bones.

Johanssen moves right next to me, wraps her arms around me and leans her head against me in something I can only call _cuddling_. It’s warm, and soft, and the entire

“Johanssen?” I say shakily, wrapping my arms around her.

“I’m just glad you came back to me,” she says, and her voice is wet. “Besides, you like cuddling.”

She’s right. Before Sol 6, I was always trying to hug and cuddle people. I hugged total strangers and curled up next to people on couches. I’ve slept on everyone in this crew at least once.

Everyone else is standing now, groaning from the hard floor like me. It’s then I notice that we were all slammed into a corner in my tiny lab.

“Let’s at least move somewhere more comfortable,” I say, patting her back and standing up.

“We’ll both fit on the squishy chair in the rec room,” she says.

Martinez waggles his eyebrows. “How do you know that, Beth Johanssen?”

Johanssen rolls her eyes, and she doesn’t totally let go of me, holding my hand and dragging me through the ship. She practically pushes me into the rec room and into the chair, and then promptly sits down next to me and curls up in my side.

“I didn’t give my consent,” I quip.

“Mark, do you want to cuddle?” She asks dryly, head on my chest near my neck. She’s smaller than me now, I’ve put on some muscle, and I’ve got some height on her.

She’s so warm against my side. “Yeah, okay, I guess.” Johanssen is supposed to be the sex symbol of a generation, but to me she’s just a perfect little sister.

“I see you two are comfy,” Beck remarked dryly as he filed in.

“Jealous?” Martinez quipped.

Beck rolled his eyes. “I don’t think I’m physically capable of being jealous of Watney. I mean…” Beck stands there awkwardly. “We left him on Mars. He could have sex with Beth and I’d forgive him.”

“I’m not having sex with Watney,” Beth says from my side.

I scoff, gesturing to my chest. “What, all this isn’t good enough for you?”

Beth snorts, and I gasp, but my pride isn’t actually stung. I’m not her type, way too loud and obnoxious, not like Chris Beck the quiet sweet teddy bear.

The rest of them start babbling about something or other, and I settle in with this warm body pressed to my side. Her arms are around me, so I set my hand on the back of her forearm where mine always get cold. They bust out a deck of cards, and I watch them play their game.

We all sit that way, just passing the time.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 804

“Is he asleep?” Beck asks quietly, turning around to look at the squishy chair.

Watney’s head was against the back rim of the chair, eyes closed, mouth slightly open.

 _I think so_ , Johanssen mouths from where she lay.

“He’s not…” Vogel says, trailing off. They get the picture. He’s not having a nightmare.

“You’d think he would, after the day he just had,” Martinez says tiredly. “Come to think of it, I’m tired too, he’s got the right idea.”

They look at him a moment longer, peacefully where he’s sitting.

“I feel bad waking him up, but we can’t get him to the gym without doing it,” Beck says. “We can get him to the gym ladder but we can’t just toss him into 1g.”

“He’ll wake up soon, anyways,” Martinez says. “He wakes up like, at least five times every night.”

“I’ll stay here until then,” Johanssen mumbled sleepily. “You guys can go to bed.”

—

Beth Johanssen  
Mission Day 804

Johanssen fell asleep at Watney’s side, too, well after everyone else got up to go to bed.

She was woken by her sleeping surface moving, taking quick breaths.

Johanssen sat up to see that Watney was moaning in his sleep, jerking his head back and forth.

“Mark,” she mumbled, shaking him awake. “Go to your bed.”

Watney sat up ramrod straight, his eyes roving around and eventually landing on Johanssen.

“Beth?” He mumbled sleepily.

“Bed, Watney, bed,” she said, climbing up off of him. “Come on.”

Watney mumbled but sat up, and drug himself up off the squishy chair and into the ladder tube.

When Watney stumbled into the gym, Johanssen kicked Martinez awake.

“Martinez, he’s all yours,” she mumbled.

Martinez stuck an arm out the blanket, gave a thumbs up, and Johanssen went back to her bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter includes more quality dialogue from incorrectthemartianquotes.tumblr.com.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may notice that the dates have changed; I realized I was frontloading events, so I spread everything out more so that more time has passed.

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 807

I’m sitting in the rec room staring out at space, as has become my late-afternoon custom. Most days it’s still a depressing affair, but today I’m just idily thinking about how my back hurts, and scheming about ways to make it feel better without having to ask Beck for medication. Vogel is sitting at the table with his laptop, as it’s his shift babysitting.

Martinez marches into the rec room, and stands squarely in front of the window to space.

“You’re blocking the view,” I say.

“I am the view,” he informs me, grinning.

I roll my eyes, in too much pain to come up with a clever response. Bet he’s proud of that one.

“What are you doing?” Martinez asks, coming over to sit by me.

I wave my hand around the room, as if to say ‘what the fuck does it look like?’ “My back hurts,” is what I say.

“Go get painkillers from Beck, he’s got a ton.”

I laugh. “As much fun as that sounds, I’m trying to avoid that.”

“Why?” he asks blandly.

Honestly, I don’t really know why. I think about how great it would be to get stoned every day, so that for ten fucking seconds I can forget the pain in my chest. But as for why I won’t ask for pain medication of any kind… I suppose it’s because I’m an active-duty American astronaut, and my pride won’t let me.

What I decide to say is “Addict, remember?”

Martinez rolls his eyes. “Not like, _really_ ,” he equivocated.

“Trust me, Martinez, yeah-like-really.” Yeah, really, if someone put a bottle of Vicodin in my hands there’s a significant chance I’d stuff as much down my throat as I could before someone stopped me.

Martinez shrugs, and stays where he’s sitting.

“Ugh, I hate this,” I say instead. “I’m not even doing anything. My back is probably going to hurt until I die. Just another thing to thank Mars for.”

I turn to Martinez, giving an exaggerated grin with two thumbs up. He returns the gesture.

“Watch a movie with me tonight,” he says next. “Not sci fi. A western.”

I grimace. “Christ, westerns are awful.”

“Yeah, but they’re not sci-fi,” he says enticingly. “What, did you have something else on your busy schedule?”

“Yeah, not watching crappy movies,” I say. Then I roll my eyes. “Okay, okay, we’ll watch your movie.”

—

About halfway through the movie, I forgot again.

—

The images are moving on the screen, but I can’t quite follow them. What’s going on?

Scott Eastwood is on the screen, wearing some sort of ridiculous hat. I don’t remember anyone having this movie on their media stick; did I miss something when searching their files?

“What?” I mumble, moving to stand.

“Mark?” Martinez says from my side.

I look over, and he’s just sitting there on a folding chair, I’m sitting on the squishy chair in the rec room and the laptop is propped on a chair in front of us.

The last thing I remember is watching Happy Days laying in bed. Is this a dream?

I flex my hands. No, this feels pretty real. But I wouldn’t know anymore. Sometimes my dreams are really vivid.

His hand lands on my shoulder, and it’s so warm that I don’t think this is a dream anymore. “You okay?” His voice sounds like it’s coming through water.

I look around, and the elements of the Hermes stick out at me. Is this some kind of memory from the trip here?

“Mark!” Martinez is shaking my shoulder, he pauses the movie, gets up from his chair to kneel in front of me. “What’s wrong?”

My hands feel numb. Everything on my body feels numb. I hold my hands out, confused.

Martinez grabs them, and suddenly my hands exist, and they’re completely covered by his body heat.

Right, right, I’m on the Hermes, I don’t know quite how I got here but it sounds correct.

“How did I get here?” I ask, looking up at him slowly.

“I don’t know,” Martinez says from far away. “We’ve been in here for hours. You probably walked in here.”

“No, no…” I say slowly. “The Hermes.” I’m looking around, and everything looks just like we left it Sol 1. Perfectly clean.

“We got you, buddy. 67 days ago, you got in the MAV and came back to the Hermes.”

The memories filter in. Strapping myself into the only remaining seat. Feeling the rocket shimmy as the explosion blew me into the atmosphere. Seeing the flames out of the side of the ship. Feeling the heat sear my skin even through the EVA suit.

I gasp, pull my hands out of his and grab my arms, but there’s not an EVA suit there now, just my skin, normal temperature skin.

“Hey, it’s okay, you’re on the Hermes now,” his voice is still saying through the water. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know,” I say, looking around the ship. Everything looks foggy. I’m uncomfortable, I’m confused, I wish I had a blanket to wrap around my arms. My skin feels weird, like I can feel it laying on top of my body.

“It’s really bad this time, huh,” he says, grabbing the back of my arms. It feels good, makes my skin feel better. “Mark. You’re on the Hermes. It’s Mission Day 795 on the Ares III mission. We rescued you on Mission Day 687. All right?”

I just swallow, nodding. Okay, that all sounds correct. But wait, my chest still hurts, everything still hurts, I’m on Mars. But I’m looking around the Hermes and it’s here, and this definitely isn’t a memory. God, this is just too confusing. Whenever this happens I just wrap a blanket around my arms and lay down.

There aren’t any blankets around, none that I can see, so I stand up to get one. But Martinez just pushes me down into the seat again.

“Where are you going?” his faraway voice asks.

“I need a blanket,” I say, looking at him now. Let me just get a blanket.

“Stay right here,” he orders, pointing at me. “I’ll get your blanket.” He’s up the ladder in a flash, and he’s gone.

I’m alone in the room.

God, it’s so quiet in this room. It makes me uncomfortable, it makes my skin crawl.

“Hello?” I say, to fill the air. Nothing fills the air with me. It’s just an empty room.

I grab the back of my arms where I’m getting that crawling feeling.

Martinez is already back, blanket in hand. “Here,” he says, tossing it to me in the 0.2g room.

I catch it, immediately wrap it around my arms. It makes the skin stop hurting.

“Just watch the movie with me,” Martinez says, sitting down.

“What are we watching?” I ask distantly.

Martinez shrugs, and grabs my hand. “Just some crappy western.”

He turns it back on, the voices weaving in and out of my head. I just hold on to his hand and pull the blanket around myself tighter.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 812

Another morning, another nightmare, another rehydrated food pack for breakfast. I’m hunched over the table, and I can feel the fatigue in my muscles dragging me down toward the floor. I’ve only been on the Hermes 68 days, but already this trip feels like it’s been a lifetime.

Beck drifts into the room sleepily, making himself something to eat. “How are you today, Mark,” he mumbles, sitting down at the table.

I put my arms on the table, lean down and put my head in them. “Mmph,” I say from my arms.

“That good, huh?”

I groan. “I’m so fucking tired.” Every single muscle on my body hurts, my chest hurts, everything hurts. I really think I could fall asleep at this table and never wake up again.

He nods, looks like he’s going to say ‘me too,’ but then decides against it. Probably for the best, because however tired he is he isn’t tired like me.

“You doing all right today?” he asks softly, stirring his cereal.

No. I am not okay today. I am not okay yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that either. I am not okay. I really just wish I could fall asleep right where I’m sitting and never wake up again. I just opt not to say anything, keeping my head in my arms.

He puts his hand on my back, rubbling slow circles, as has become his habit. I don’t move, just let the motion relax me, and wish that I could fall asleep with his hand on my shoulder.

“Where’s Martinez?”

“Still asleep like a lazy asshole,” I mumble through my arms.

At that moment, Martinez stumbles down the ladder, looking drunk. “Mark?” he says, somewhat urgently.

“With me,” Beck says, waving him down.

Martinez blinks at him tiredly, then nods. He looks around the room, and decides to stay and make himself breakfast.

“How’d he sleep?” Beck asks.

I sit up indignantly. “I’m right here.”

Beck raises his eyebrows. “Fine. Mark, how’d you sleep?”

I just sort of glower at him in response.

“That’s what I thought. How’d he sleep?”

“Poorly,” Martinez mumbled. “Woke up a few times, but he falls back asleep if I touch him.”

“What?” I say. “I don’t remember that.”

Martinez shrugged. “You don’t wake all the way up, but your eyes open and you talk to me. It’s weird.”

The feeling unsettles me. It’s completely vulnerable, I don’t remember any of it.

“What do I say?”

Martinez shrugs again. “Stuff about Mars,” he mumbles.

It makes me feel too vulnerable. I wake up, look at him, and judging by my nightmares, say something awful about Mars. It’s too vulnerable.

I drop my head into my arms again, flushing, the hot feeling of shame burning through me.

“Why do you need to know how I slept?” I ask Beck.

“NASA, logs, records, all that,” Beck said. “I’ve been asking Martinez every day.”

More hot shame. “What other weird creepy tabs are you keeping on me?” I gripe.

Beck eats his cereal slowly. “What you eat. How many times you space out in a day. All your flashbacks and dissociative episodes. How much work you get done in a day. Everything you share about Mars.”

Great, my entire life is being recorded for posterity.

“It’s unprecedented behavioral science,” Beck says, half an apology. “It’s unethical to study solitary confinement, so the only time scientists learn anything about it is when it happens to people. Since the practice was eliminated in prisons, and we’re not in active war, it almost never happens.”

“I’m glad my misery is fueling scientific discovery,” I mumble, surly.

Beck laughed. “Believe me, it is. Dude, these psychologists are fucked up. Every time you have a flashback they get excited when I deliver the report. Not that they want you to suffer,” he said placatingly, “just that they have more interesting data.”

“At least it’s helping someone,” I mumble.

“I believe that once they figure out the physiological changes solitary and PTSD can cause, they’re going to try and synthesize drugs to help people with PTSD. That’s the gist of what they’ve told me.”

It makes the hot sense of shame in my chest a little less suffocating. My suffering is making someone else’s suffering easier.

There’s a tiny voice inside of me, and it belongs to Mark Watney, the Mark Watney that went into all of this. The fact that my suffering might help someone else makes him happy.

“If it makes you feel any better, NASA’s psych team is continually impressed with how well you’re doing. The physio team, too, really.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up.

Beck’s still eating cereal casually. “Yeah. They’re extremely impressed with you, as a person.”

“You did tell them about the other day, right?” I ask, sitting up straight. “You know, when I tried to kill myself.”

“You’re not the first to try,” Beck quips. “But…” he stops eating his cereal, sighing. “I didn’t tell you this at first, because I didn’t want to get your morale down, but solitary isolation is _really_ , really bad for people. Like… really bad. You’re doing better than could be hoped.”

Psychiatrists, when describing the effects of things, don’t use words like ‘really, _really_ bad.’

“Define really bad,” I say lowly.

Beck frowned. “They sent me a bunch of studies involving people and solitary. In one of them, they took monkeys and put them in solitary confinement in inverted pyramids for 12 months. No entertainment, no sight of any other living things. Inside of 6 months, over half the monkeys were so out of their mind they refused to eat or sleep. Within 12, a third of them died with no clear cause. The rest of them could never reintegrate with the population or perform social interaction, whatever it is that monkeys do to interact.”

“What?” I say, mouth dry.

“In one study they sent me, a guy who had been in solitary for 15 months had a constant complex hallucination that kitchen fruit was dancing around his cell. He would talk to the fruit, and he knew it wasn’t there, but said that it was too distracting for him to execute his life.”

Beck snorts. “They sent me all this before you woke up, on 687. The entire time you were asleep I was afraid you’d wake up and start tearing apart the ship.”

The image of me waking up and tearing apart the walls of the Hermes amuses me. I have repeatedly had the urge to throw a temper tantrum and start throwing things (like, every day) but have so far resisted that urge.

“Now, you had entertainment and some form of communication, so they didn’t think you’d be _that_ bad,” Beck reassures me. “But texting doesn’t trigger the same things in the brain that face-to-face communication does, I guess. Something about the brain just knows when it’s a real human versus a picture, I don’t know. I didn’t ask. The point is, psychologically, you might as well have been utterly alone the whole time.”

“So…” I trail off. I’m not fucked up because I’m a huge weak failure, I’m fucked up because it’s just what happens. You leave a person in isolation, they’re gonna go fucking crazy no matter what happens.

“Solitary confinement has been shown to have _physical_ affects on the brain,” Beck was saying. “That’s one of the things NASA is going to scan you for when you get back. The fact that you can walk, and talk, and aren’t permanently hallucinating, is nothing short of a miracle.”

“It’s a brain thing,” I said, somewhat distantly. “It’s just in my brain.”

Beck smiles, nods. “Yeah. It’s just in your brain.”

I stare at the wall. “I thought…” I trail off.

This doesn’t change everything. They still shouldn’t have saved me, I still took two fathers from their children and billions of dollars from people who needed it. I still gave one of the people I love the guilt complex of the century. I’m still fucked up and not worth it. But…

It’s not my fault I’m fucked up, and that’s something. I’m not fucked up because I was weak. Oh, I’m weak _now_ , but maybe the Mark Watney that went into all of this wasn’t.

Beck’s still looking at me and his eyes turn sad, really sad. “What did you think?”

I just swallow, frown, look down at the table. His hand is still on my back, still rubbing small circles.

“Did you know that when you call me Mark, sometimes I don’t know who you’re talking to?” I laugh hollowly. “I don’t think of myself as Mark Watney. Mark Watney is dead, died years ago.”

Martinez is sitting down next to me. “Why are you saying this?”

I want to say it, what’s on my mind.

I thought this happened to me because Mark Watney deserved it. He was born in an upper middle class neighborhood and went to a fancy university, and acted like everyone who didn’t was just lazy and ungrateful. Spent his entire college career trying and failing to fuck women. He joined the Peace Corps because he was snooty, dumped his girlfriend to do it, and the entire time he was there he acted like he was better than the mud-flinging natives. He gets back, decides he’s gonna be an _Astronaut_ , because he’s _so fucking cool_ , does an Underarmour ad as a ‘gotcha’ to all the jocks who made fun of him in high school.

“Mark?” Beck asks encouragingly.

Maybe I am Mark Watney. Because I certainly don’t deserve any of the attention and care they’re giving me right now.

My chest jerks. “I thought I deserved it.” Everything in me is wound tight, and one good pull will make me fall apart.

“Hey, hey -” Martinez starts.

“I don’t want to talk about this,” I say, putting my hands flat on the table, trying to calm the shaking threatening to take over my chest.

“Fine, don’t talk,” Beck said. “Just listen. You. Didn’t. Deserve. This. Any of it. You didn’t deserve a single thing that has happened to you over the past few years. You didn’t deserve to be left behind, you didn’t deserve the airlock explosion, you didn’t deserve having to farm in our shit, none of it. Not a single minute of it. Okay?”

I clasp my hands together, right hand around my left fingertip where I pricked the morphine on Sol 6. It’s a habit for me to grab that hand, as if I can still feel the echoes of the needle.

He waits on me a beat. “I’m not gonna say okay,” I say, a little irritated.

Johanssen and Lewis stumble in next, freshly showered and ready for the day.

“Guys -” Martinez starts.

I stand up from the table. “No, I’m done.”

 

 

 

—

Crew  
Mission Day 812

“No, I’m done,” Watney says roughly, pushing up from the table and leaving the room.

Beck immediately stands up and runs after him.

“What was that about?” Johanssen asks, watching them go.

Martinez looks pale, still just sitting at the table. “He thinks he deserved it.”

The color drains from Lewis’s face. “What?”

“He thinks he deserved to be left there,” Martinez repeats, face drawn. “God knows why.” He pulls his crucifix out from under his shirt, clasps it between his hands, begins to pray right over his breakfast.

“Did he say anything else?” Lewis asks, somewhat urgently.

They watch him pray for a few minutes. He puts his hands down, opens his eyes. “No. Said he didn’t wanna talk about it.”

Vogel climbed down the ladder at that moment, and immediately picked up on the tense atmosphere.

“What happened,” Vogel asks, voice laced with worry.

Lewis’s answer was hollow. “Watney thinks he deserved it.”

“What?” Vogel asked. “What?!”

“Martinez said it,” Johanssen offered.

Martinez shook his head. “Yeah. Said that, said he didn’t want to talk about it, ran off. Beck went after him.”

Vogel just closes his eyes, covers his face with one of his hands, rubs like he’s a million years old.

He walks over to the countertop to make breakfast, and the rest of them take their breakfast in silence.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 812

_He thinks he deserved this._

When Watney got up, Beck followed him, chasing him up the ladder. _How could he think he deserved this?_

“I can’t get ten seconds to myself,” Watney snapped as he continued to stalk to his lab.

“This isn’t about that,” Chris yelled after him.

Watney rolled his eyes, took his computer out. “Fine. If you’re gonna be here, fine, but please just sit there and be quiet.”

“No,” Beck said roughly. “I’m not here to babysit you. You said you don’t want to talk, great, but listen to me. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

“What would you know?” Watney said, spinning to look at Beck. “You aren’t me!”

“’I don’t know what you’ve done?’” Beck mocked. Watney snapped his mouth shut, and Beck could see him clench his teeth together. “You’re a botanist from Chicago, Watney, how bad could you possibly be?”

Beck thought Watney had moved onto silence, continuing to stare at him angrily. Beck tried, but he just couldn’t guess at what Watney was thinking.

“Look,” Beck started. “If you don’t give me anything to work with, I can’t help you. But I know this; you did not deserve this. More than that, you deserve it less than anyone. You are such a positive, optimistic, happy man. You always see the best in people. You always hope for the best in the world. Even _now_ , you always are here for us with a good word and a joke.”

Beck saw Watney’s jaw slacken, saw his eyes move down to the table he stood in front of, shoulders beginning to sag.

Beck walked around the table, put a hand on Watney’s shoulder. “You’re one of my 5 best friends, and you didn’t deserve this.”

“It’s not that,” he says quietly, still looking at the table. “I just…” he falls silent.

Beck squeezes his shoulder, encouraging him to continue.

“I just didn’t deserve to be rescued,” he says.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 812

Beck is still following me, god damnit, they’re like ticks. “I can’t get ten seconds to myself,” I snap behind me. I get it, I’m a flight risk, but it’s not like giving me ten fucking minutes to myself is gonna kill me.

“This isn’t about that,” Chris yelled after him.

Whatever. I highly doubt that. “Fine. If you’re gonna be here, fine, but please just sit there and be quiet.” I don’t want to hear about it. I don’t want to hear them tell me about how _I’m worth it_ and _whatever_.

I don’t want to hear about it because I want so badly to believe it, and hearing the words is like dangling it in front of my face. I get it, I’m not worth all this, I get it but please, do you have to tease me with it? Do you have to hang it in front of my face and say ‘this is what you should be?’

“No,” Beck said roughly. “I’m not here to babysit you. You said you don’t want to talk, great, but listen to me. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

The words slice into my heart, and I’m just so sick of things slicing into my heart.

“What would you know?” I spin on my heels to look Beck in the face. “You aren’t me!” They may know everything about my life, but they didn’t live it.

“’I don’t know what you’ve done?’” Beck mocked.

Oh, _fuck you_ , Beck. I bite my tongue to keep my mouth shut.

“You’re a botanist from Chicago, Watney, how bad could you possibly be?”

It ain’t about that, Beck. It’s not like I’m that bad. I was just a shitty guy. A normal, shitty guy, like every other normal shitty guy on Earth. It’s not like I specifically deserved to get left on Mars. But I was, you know? And at that point, I wasn’t worth all the effort it took to get me back. I mean, for Chrissakes, I keep trying to fling myself out the airlock. Why would you even bother saving a man who keeps trying to kill himself anyways?

“Look,” Beck started. “If you don’t give me anything to work with, I can’t help you. But I know this; you did not deserve this.”

I can’t listen to this.

“More than that, you deserve it less than anyone. You are such a positive, optimistic, happy man.”

I can’t listen to this. How can anyone expect me to listen to him say this? I want so badly to believe it.

“You always see the best in people. You always hope for the best in the world.”

Fuck, how can anyone make me hear this when all I want is to believe it. It doesn’t even have to be true, I just want to believe that someone believes it.

“Even _now_ , you always are here for us with a good word and a joke.”

God, fuck, fucking damnit. I can’t do this.

His hand touches down on my shoulder again, and it’s all I can do not to have some sort of breakdown.

“You’re one of my 5 best friends, and you didn’t deserve this.”

“It’s not that,” my mouth says on behalf of my brain. Stop it, mouth, stop it, stop seeking attention! “I just…”

Just let it go, Beck. Just go back to whatever you’re doing, it’ll pass, we don’t have to talk about it.

But he squeezes my shoulder, and the burst of warmth in my chest makes my tongue loose.

“I just didn’t deserve to be rescued,” I whisper, still looking at the table. “I was just some guy from Northbrook. I didn’t deserve a three billion dollar rescue mission.”

Beck pulls me into a tight hug, again, and it’s getting easier for me to wrap my arms around him and clutch him back.

“Yes you did, some guy from Northbrook,” Beck whispered. “You are worth every second.”

My voice is choked up again, not quite crying but almost. “I’m not even that guy anymore. I’m the fucked up thing he became, and that’s worse.”

“No, you’re not,” Beck says, pulling back to look me in the eye. “You’re the same Mark Watney I’ve always known. You just went through a really tough situation, and you’re recovering. You’ll get there.”

My laugh is pained, but I push him off me.

I’m not quite ready to believe any of what he’s saying, but the words still settle on my heart, warm and glowing. They feed the hope, the hope I’ve been nursing in my chest since Sol 6.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 815

Vogel is the one saddled with me today, and I decide to hang out in _his_ lab today so that he can fuss over his chemicals and flasks or whatever it is that chemists do on a spaceship.

Today he seems to be sorting a chemical cabinet or something, and I’m watching him struggle with tying tiny strings that are attached to little bags of equipment. He’s spread tiny ties and dipsticks all over the table, and having trouble getting them back into their packaging. He’s been ignoring me the whole day, which I find odd, considering it’s his job to stare at me and my job to ignore everyone.

“Need help?” I offer, standing up from my seat.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Vogel says, agitated.

I’m standing anyways, so I go walk over to him. He keeps his eyes down, fiddling with what he’s holding.

“If you want to help, put those in there,” he says, pointing to some little fuzzy sticks and an empty bag. “The ties are difficult to tie.”

“I can see that,” I remark dryly, picking up the fuzzy sticks.

Vogel’s peering at his own bag, trying to thread the ties together. “Fudge,” he says to himself.

“Look, I understand that this is a tense situation, but let’s watch the fucking language,” I joke, trying to tie delicate strings of my own.

He laughs, but he doesn’t look up, still intent on this little bag.

“Alex,” I ask quietly. “Are you all right?”

He looks up at me, and I know I’ve hit something.

“Am I all right?” He asks incredulously. “Me?”

“Yeah, you. Who else am I talking to?”

He shakes his head. “No. I am not going to whine about my problems, not to you.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “I want to hear them.”

“No, you don’t,” he says, and his tone is heavy.

“Yeah, I do,” I insist. “I held on for _years_ , just to come back to this crew. There’s nothing I want more than to talk to you.”

He looks up at me again and sighs. “One of my best friends almost killed himself the other day, right in front of me. And all I can think is, why didn’t I notice? How could I let it get that bad?”

“Well, what did you do?”

Vogel looks at me blankly. “What?”

“What did you do?” I ask. “What did you do after you found out?”

His voice is stilted, he doesn’t understand what I’m getting at. “Well, I stopped him.”

“And?” I ask patiently.

“And talked to him,” he says. “Told him that it was okay, that I love him.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You said exactly the right thing. And after that night, what did you do?”

Vogel is smiling now, looking down. “Okay, Watney, I get it.”

I clap him on the back. “Nothing to feel guilty about.” I’m turning around to sit back down.

He turns to me now, with a question of his own. “Why don’t you talk that way about yourself.”

“What?” I stop, put my hand on the table, still facing away from him. Something cold is trickling down my chest.

“You’re so forgiving of all of us, but you don’t forgive yourself. There’s nothing you even need to forgive yourself for.”

My hands curl on the tabletop. The empty feelings in my chest snapped immediately to the forefront, and I remember why it is that I kept lurking around that airlock.

“Three billion dollars spent saving me could have been better spent somewhere else,” I mumble angrily.

“NASA put you on Mars, Mark, they weren’t just going to abandon you there.”

I wheel around the table, sit down next to my laptop and pretend to be distracted by whatever it is that I’m doing. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, the pain is going to reach up into my sternum and my neck and I don’t want to be in pain.

“Mark…”

I type loudly, the keys aren’t even going to anything, I’m just trying to make noise. The emptiness in my chest is shuddering and painful and I just want it to stop.

“Come on, Mark.”

I sigh. “No, Vogel, not this. Not right now.”

He frowns, but says okay, turns back to what he was doing.

I close the laptop, stand back up, go back to what I was doing to help him. “I’m sorry man, I just… it’s hard to talk about.”

Vogel gave a half-smile. “I know how it can be. When I attempted suicide, nobody caught me. I failed. I didn’t tell anyone about it for ten years.”

I look up at him.

“Oh, I gave it a good try, too,” he said casually. “Just didn’t tie the knot right, it didn’t hold.”

“Christ,” I say, mouth dry. “Well I’m really glad it didn’t.”

Vogel looked at me. “And I’m glad Beck walked in on you.”

For a second, I feel what I think they want me to feel. I feel like I’m Alex’s friend, that I matter to him, and it’s swiftly chased by the feeling of being angry at myself, because how could I take this man’s friend away from him? My chest is a confusing collection of emotions, guilt and shame and anger and warmth and friendship.

“Do you think it would have been better, if someone caught you?” I ask instead.

Vogel shrugged. “I had no one in my life who would have. But maybe… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I just kept my struggle to myself for years. Eventually, enough years passed that it was okay again.”

He laughs. “I think that is why I do not know how to help you. I once read in a book, ‘people act weird around death because they have seen too little, or too much.’ I think that is true here. I don’t know how to help you because I have seen too much.”

“You’re a step ahead of everyone else on this ship,” I say quietly. “No one is saying it, but I can see it on their faces. ‘Why would he do that? After all of this?’”

“Do you still want to?” Vogel asks. “And do not worry, I’m not going to throw you in the dungeon if you do.”

I frown, looking away. The monster that lives in my chest is thrashing. “Yeah.” Because I’m still fucking worthless, a miserable wreck, freaking out every day and not sleeping at night, barely heavy enough to not look like a skeleton in the mirror.

Vogel turns, pulls me into a full body hug. The monster that lives in my chest quiets, just for a moment.

I hug him back, and I’m aware that I’m clinging, my fingers pulling into the fabric of his lab coat.

“Can you give us a hint?” He asks. “What is it you want to hear from us?”

_You were worth it all You’re not worthless We didn’t mean it We’re just stupid and don’t know how to deal with any of this Here let me carry that weight for you._

I don’t respond, still clinging to the fabric of his lab coat.

He lets go, thumping my back hard enough that the force throws me forward a little.

“Just tell me when you can,” he says, turning back to his work.

And when I can, I intend to.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 819

It’s been a good day. Why is this happening? It’s been a good day! I got work done (a tiny amount, but work nonetheless), we played cards, we laughed, we had fun. The weight in my chest didn’t keep me from talking that much, I was able to laugh without feeling like I was dying, it was good!

So why am I sitting up in my bed, shivering, trying to resist the urge to go stare at the VAL door again?

The entire crew, they’ve been so good about all of this. They sit with me every day, when I dissociate they hold my hand until I come back, if they see me staring at a wall they ask what’s wrong, it’s everything I’ve been hoping for. They’ve been here for me.

But fuck, I’m not worth all this, I’m not worth three billion dollars, all this time and effort and babysitting and care. I’m not worth the gas it takes to drive to DC from Chicago, let alone three billion dollars and thousands of man hours. JPL wasted their tears when they cried after Iris failed.

Martinez is asleep, and I know I promised I’d wake him up, but I’m really not worth the disturbed sleep.

I’m carved out, empty, as I rise and stand in the gym. It’s so easy to step over him, he doesn’t even turn in his sleep as I creep past him into the hallway.

My feet carry me to the VAL door, and I don’t put my hand on the handle this time, but I know if someone comes out here and catches me it’s the chair for sure. But no one’s going to, it’s the middle of the night, and I know they have nightmares sometimes but they don’t make a habit of crawling around the ship. In the two weeks after they rescued me, I became a professional insomniac, and I know all their sleep patterns. It was sheer dumb luck that Beck caught me, or that God ensuring my survival intervening again.

I know that god won’t intervene now, because I’m not really gonna do it. I’m just staring at the door, wishing desperately that I could.

I stare at the door a long time.

The hurt crawls through my chest, through my arms and legs like ice. God, I’m just so tired of being in pain. It’s not even that I’m not worth it, or that no one cares about me, or that I was forgotten on Mars. It’s just that I’m in pain, I’ve been in pain since Sol 6, I’ve been in pain for years and I just want it to _stop_.

My hand is on the lever again, and as soon as I realize I flinch back.

God, do I want to pull it. Everything in me is aching to.

I promised Martinez.

I promised him, I can’t let him down.

I kick back, adrenaline drives me across the ship and down the gym ladder, and I come to a hurried stop outside the gym door. Martinez is still sleeping there, exactly how I left him.

I came here to wake him up, but now that I’m here I don’t want to. I’m not going to do it, I could just climb back into bed and forget that it ever happened, no one would ever know.

But I don’t want to climb into bed. I want to go back, hold the VAL door handle like it’s some sort of option.

I grimace, clenching my fists together. God, I wish Martinez would just conveniently wake up, take this choice from me, but this isn’t a book, this is real life. No, in real life you aren’t just better after you’re rescued. In real life, stupid things leave you fucked up forever and there’s never a neat ending. If this were a book, I wouldn’t have flown the cuckoo’s nest. But this is real life, and according to Beck, in real life being in solitary confinement fucks you up no matter who you are.

Martinez is still laying there, dead to the world, and more than anything I wish this were just a book, that he’d just _know_ I’m standing here.

But what the fuck you gonna do, Watney? Stand here all night? Shit or get off the pot.

I’m still grimacing, I clench my fists, feel my nails dig into my palms. It takes all the strength I have and some I didn’t think I have, but I kick him gently.

Thank _God_ , it works on the first try. Martinez mumbles something whiny, and rolls over to look at my cot. He sees I’m not there, his eyes fly open and he sits up ramrod straight, looking around, to see me standing at the door.

“You gave me a heart attack, man!” He exclaims, clutching his chest. “Thought something had happened.”

I’m leaning on the door, clenching my fists together, my hands have a fine tremor but I don’t know if he can tell. Please, don’t make me tell you Rick, just _see_.

“Mark?” He asks, uncertainly.

God, please don’t make me say it. Don’t make me say it.

“What are you doing up?” Martinez says, on his feet in a flash. “Mark, talk to me.”

I can’t talk, not when my entire body feels like this, not when the muscles in my legs are trying to make me walk back to the airlock. It’s taking everything I have not to walk back over there, to stop myself from pulling away from him.

I feel a bit of pity for Martinez because his eyes are wide, and he looks like he’s thinking _oh shit oh shit oh shit_. He probably has no idea what to do. I don’t either.

“I’m gonna do it,” I push through my teeth.

Rick’s hand rises behind the wall, and I know it’s going for the comm button in the room. Oh god Jesus, not this, not this all over again. But a part of me craves it, the drama, the intervention, because it means everyone kicks up a big damn fuss about me and I’m a fucking attention seeking fuck these days.

“Don’t,” I say, grabbing his arm roughly. “There’s no need. I’m just gonna go back to bed.” The words feel like dragging daggers through my chest because that’s the _last_ thing I want to do.

“You’re gonna kill yourself, man, there is a need,” Martinez says brokenly.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve felt this way and it won’t be the last,” the words come from my mouth, and I’m not the one saying them. “There’s no need to set a precedent of having a big damn intervention every time it happens.”

“That doesn’t make it better,” Martinez insists. “If anything, that means you need more of a _big damn intervention_ , not less.”

He hasn’t dropped his arm yet, and I’m thinking that his hand made it to the comm button before I grabbed it.

Everyone else comes running, again, and I realize that his hand did make it to the comm.

This time, they’re a little more prepared. “Come on, Mark, let’s all go sit down and talk about this,” Beck says.

The last time they caught me I unloaded on them, but this time I don’t want to talk to them. I explained myself to them already.

Then again, I didn’t really. I told them my horrid, horrid story but didn’t tell them how I’m feeling now. But I don’t want to tell them, they don’t need to hear about how I’m worthless, the sheer obviousness of it is painted on the walls.

“No need,” I say breathlessly.

You know, somewhere along the line, this started as a noble story about one man surviving the harsh winds of Mars. Mark Watney v Mars, the showdown. But that story is long over, and now this is just the story of a fucked up man trying to pick up the pieces of his life. Mark Watney died Sol 6, and the guy battling Mars won, but the battle wore him down so much that there was nothing left. Now what’s the story about? My pathetic fucking existence trying to live with myself after all of this?

“We want to,” Johanssen said. “We _want_ to hear.”

You know, I haven’t even emailed anyone at NASA. I am still emailing my mom every day but the emails have turned cold and distant, just facts about what goes on in my day. At some point I stopped really talking to her. My entire world has narrowed to me dragging myself around this ship. I can’t reach out to humanity and Earth even if I wanted to. 7 light minutes away doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s the difference between a human voice and face in a video chat, and a block of text.

There’s something in me that’s just given up on ever getting home. That gave up, that gave up on getting home years ago, sometime around the time I had to stuff myself into a rover to get pathfinder.

“There’s just no point,” I say. “There’s no exotic, inspiring story anymore. It’s not ‘Mark Watney versus Mars, the gripping story of one man’s fight for survival’ anymore. It’s just…” I gesture to myself. “One fucked up dude, trying to put himself back together. Just as dark, just as depressing, and no fun scientific problems and witty comebacks, no light at the end of the tunnel, however dim.”

Everything’s drained out of me again, and I’m thankful because at least I’m able to talk now. “It’s just… this. It sucks. There’s no end. Just endless sucking.”

“That’s not true,” Lewis says, stepping forward. “You’ll get home and things are going to be a lot better.”

I scoff. What home? But I don’t say it.

“It doesn’t even suck that bad,” I admit. “It’s better than Mars, a lot better. But it still sucks. And it’s not gonna stop sucking. I don’t want to live if the rest of my life is just gonna be one endless Suck.”

Martinez is still next to me, so he grabs my arm. “It won’t. It won’t, all right?”

I rub my face. I’m empty inside, so empty inside it hurts, but I’m so used to it by now that it doesn’t even warrant comment. “There’s no point,” I say. “Just… if we all go to bed, tomorrow morning I’ll wake up feeling better, sort of, and it’ll be in the past.”

“Is that really what you want?” Vogel asks, perceptive, always perceptive.

I just don’t respond because no, it isn’t, but I’m not going to stand here and ask for anything else.

But I give it a second thought, and tonight, it really is. I’m always up for a big damn emotional intervention, but not tonight, not when everything in me is drained and empty and gone from saying what I just said. Tonight just sucks, sucks enough that I want to throw myself out of the VAL, and I want tonight to be over.

“Yeah, honestly,” I say. “Really.”

They keep looking at me.

“I swear,” I say, turning back into the room.

“I’ll stay up,” Martinez says, waving them off. “I guess… false alarm, go back to bed.”

“Yeah, sorry guys,” I yell from the gym. “Tonight’s _big damn intervention_ has been rescheduled, new date TBD.”

Thank god I’m already face down in the pillows when I say that, so I don’t have to look at their faces as they walk away.

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 821

I jerk awake in the middle of the night. I’m pasty, I’m shaking, something happened, the rover flipped, the rover exploded, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. As per usual, I lay in bed shaking like a leaf for a couple seconds, recovering.

The first thing I notice is that I’m hungry, I really want a snack. I _know_ I promised to wake Martinez if I left the room, but I’m not going to sneak out and look at the VAL, I’m just going to go eat a snack and come right back.

I climb out of bed, walk past him, studiously look anywhere but the VAL as I shoot past it into the rec room hallway. Whew, existential crisis avoided this time.

When I get there, though, I’m met with the sight of Johanssen and Lewis, crying together around the rec room table.

“What are you doing up?” Lewis says, instantly alert. “Watney?”

“Getting a snack,” I say crossly, holding my hands up defensively.

They both look at me suspiciously, but don’t choose to comment any further. They just look down, hunching over the table. I can see their tear-streaked faces.

“What’s wrong?” I ask them softly, just grabbing a snack bar from a drawer.

“No, no,” Lewis says, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t be the one asking that.”

“Well, I am,” I say decisively. “And I caught you two, so cough up.”

They look down, at each other, and Johanssen is the first to speak. “You,” she says, voice wobbly. “All of us. All of this.”

I laugh softly. “Tell me about it,” I say, in between bites, wanting to relieve the hunger pangs in my stomach.

Johanssen sniffled, rubbing her face.

“Lewis?” I ask.

It’s weird, asking my crying commander why she’s crying, but this entire mission has gone so monumentally sideways that it just doesn’t even matter.

She rubbed her tear-streaked face and looked a million years old. “When we left for Mars, we were all healthy and happy. It’s years later we’re still stranded out here and we’re all tired, and broken,” she says. “And I’m the Commander. That’s on no one but me.”

“You’re the Commander, not God,” Johanssen says. “It’s not your fault that storm happened, it’s not your fault that Mark’s struggling.”

I point at Johanssen to indicate my agreement, my mouth full. “NASA said it was bound to happen, remember?”

Lewis pursed her lips. “If I’d just looked for you, it wouldn’t have happened at all.”

“That’s not true,” I say. “Even if you found me, you wouldn’t have known I was alive. Even if you found me that antenna could have pierced an internal organ, or I could have been suffocating from decompression. We know protocol; you don’t bring bodies back. Finding me wouldn’t have changed anything. There is literally nothing you could have done.”

“NASA could have sent redundant biomonitors,” Johanssen said spitefully. “Of all the things to make a single point of failure.”

“I think the redundant ones relied on other broken electronics in the suit, I don’t know how they work,” I say. “The point is, none of this is Lewis’s fault.”

“I’m the Commander,” she said resolutely. “It’s my fault.” She’s staring at the wall with determination, as if her gaze alone can break it.

I put my head in my hands. I’m waking up, the emptiness is back in force, I just don’t have the energy to comfort my superior officer tonight. I rub my face, as if rubbing the skin on it is going to somehow give me life.

Her face is lined, and set, and damn if she’s not the most stubborn person I know.

Irritation strikes at my heart. “Fine, believe what you want,” I grumble. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Mark,” Johanssen says, half question half admonishment.

“Don’t ‘Mark’ me,” I snap. You can’t ask _me_ to comfort _her_.

Then, I deflate. “Just…” I wave my hand. “I’m going to bed.”

“Mark, wait,” Lewis says, and something authoritarian about her tone makes me stop and turn around.

She’s on her feet now. “I haven’t told you yet. I’m…”

She takes a big breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for making the wrong call.” She shook her head. “One wrong call did so much damage. And I’m sorry. You’ll never know how sorry I am.”

Oh, I think I know what it’s like to feel sorry. “It wasn’t the wrong call,” I mumble. It wasn’t the wrong call, for _so_ many reasons.

“It made all this happen. It was the wrong call.”

No, the wrong call here me was choosing life on Sol 6, choosing life every time after. So much pain could have just been avoided. If I’d died, I’d just be a dead astronaut, neat and tidy and forgotten like it was supposed to be.

My tone is insistent. “There was no right call, then. There was no arrangement of events that would have led to me being rescued. You _had_ to lift off, and I had an antenna in my gut and wasn’t going anywhere no matter what happened. I was already dead. The only thing left was to see if anyone else would die too. You said lift off, and no one did. Right call.”

Pushing the words through my teeth feels painful because it’s horrible, but it’s true. There was nothing to be done for me. I was doomed the moment that communications array ripped off.

“I still made the wrong call, then,” she said softly. “After we rescued you, I told everyone to back off, leave you alone, against my better judgment. You only suffered more for it. Wrong call.”

No, that wasn’t the wrong call, I wasn’t worth the energy.

“Why do you want so badly to be wrong?” I huff, and my voice sounds hollow to my own ears.

“Because you aren’t, Mark,” she said. Her hand is on my arm now, warm, and tears are pricking at the sides of my eyes. “You aren’t wrong. You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Her hands are on the back of my arms, and I don’t think I want this to be happening but I don’t pull away either, just frozen where I stand.

“You haven’t done anything wrong. You have been nothing but strong, and brave, and courageous, this whole time. You haven’t done a single thing wrong.” She’s standing very close to me now, less than a foot between us.

There’s tears welling at the corner of my eyes, I can feel my hands starting to shake and I’m drinking the words in like they’re water in the desert because it’s everything I want to believe about myself, everything I can’t believe.

“You didn’t see me down there, Lewis,” I choke out. You didn’t see me repeatedly throw things at the canvas knowing I’d die, you didn’t see me hanging out with a radioactive core, you didn’t see me talking to people who weren’t there.

I’m wound so tight, just hanging on her words, waiting for something, for what I don’t know.

She pulls me into a hug, tight and warm and solid. “I see you now.”

God, I’m really crying now. I bring my arms up to grab Lewis and just wrap them around her so tightly I doubt she can breathe, but she doesn’t voice a single protest. I’m clutching her shirt like it’s a safety blanket, sobbing like a gigantic baby right in front of her and Johanssen.

“You have been so brave,” she says, and her voice is soothing and warm and makes me sob even harder. It’s everything I want to hear and I know she’s my age and that this mission is so fucked it doesn’t matter but she’s my Commander and she’s a fucking badass and if _she’s_ telling _me_ _I’ve_ been brave then maybe, _maybe_ it’s true.

I feel like I’m shattering into a million pieces of glass, right here in the rec room of the Hermes.

“It’s okay, Mark,” Johanssen says, smiling softly.

I bury my head in Lewis’s shoulder, even though it’s below me. “Thank you,” I say into her sweatshirt. “Thank you.” My voice is barely intelligible through my sobbing.

“Anytime, soldier,” she says, warm hands heating a path down my back.

“I’m not a soldier,” I say, voice muffled. Her hand on my back is warm, reaching deep inside of me, and I can feel my entire body sagging into hers. “I’m a botanist.”

She leans her head against mine. “You fought harder than anyone else I’ve ever worked with.”

My entire body is shaking with the force of my crying, I think it’s the hardest I’ve ever sobbed in my life. “I just want to be done fighting,” I cry into her shoulder. “I just want it to be over.”

“It is,” her warm voice says, right next to my ear. “It is. It’s over. You’re home.”

“I’m on the Hermes,” I say, always annoying even now.

Lewis laughs. “You’re with us, you’re home, shut up.”

Johanssen is hanging back, and I appreciate it, because I didn’t realize it but the fact that Lewis has been hanging back has hurt, because she’s the commanding officer and she’s the strongest person I’ve ever met, and if I wasn’t worth her time then maybe there was something to it.

“I’m not even sure what home is,” my mouth says. I’m sobbing into her arms and now it’s started the words are pouring out of me. “All I’ve wanted for years is just to go home and I don’t even know what home _is_ anymore. The last place I’ve ever felt at home is in _the Hab_ , and how fucked up is that?” My laugh is wet. “Did you know that I actually moved all the tables around my cot so that I wouldn’t have to get up, for anything? It was really convenient.”

Lewis just continues to rub my back, brings her other hand up to my hair, patiently listening.

“Mars was fucking horrible, but I knew the score, it was just me and that damn planet. It throws something at me trying to kill me, I beat it. Easy. Ever since I got back everything’s been a fucking mess. Nothing makes sense anymore. It’s not that I miss Mars, but I miss it because it’s the last time anything made any fucking sense.”

“The way you’re feeling is perfectly normal,” she says next to me. “It’s… I’ve met soldiers with PTSD who re-enlist almost immediately. Nobody thinks of submariners in a cold war getting PTSD, but living in a tin can with a nuclear bomb is surprisingly stressful.”

“Try taking a bath with one,” I laugh.

“What?”

“Nevermind,” I mumble distractedly. “You won’t like it.”

“Come on, Watney.”

Tears are still streaming down my face at a respectable clip while I tell this story.

“I used the RTG to heat the rovers, right? Well, I figured, I have it in the Rover with me all the time, what the hell. I took it inside the Hab and used tubing to make it a heater for a bath. More of a hot tub, really.”

“Oh my god,” Lewis says, still petting my hair, and damn if it isn’t the most wonderful thing I’ve ever felt. “Watney.”

“I really didn’t have a lot of concern for my own health or well being.”

“Dying of radiation isn’t a fun way to die.”

“Well…” I still had that morphine on the table.

We haven’t talked about that since I flipped out at them on 748. I screamed my head off about the whole thing, but everyone’s been really respectful and hasn’t forced me to talk about any of it since then.

I feel a bit of pity for them. They don’t really know at all what happened to me, what it was really like, _at all_ , except what I screamed at them while I had a gun pointed at my own head.

But what Lewis said is still echoing in my chest, bright and warm, and there’s been more than enough emotional upheaval for one night.

“…whatever,” is how I finish that sentence.

The conversation feels like it’s coming to a close, but Lewis is still petting my hair and I’m not going to stop her.

“I just want everything to go back to normal,” I say.

“It’s not going to go back to normal. But it’s going to get better, and there will be a new normal, and it will be a lot better than the one you had before.”

I can already feel it, I think, peeking around the corner.

—

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 822

Beck thinks Watney has been doing better lately. Why does he think that? Because of the excessively annoying thing he’s doing right now.

“Mark, I don’t mean to stomp all over your fun here, but -”

“What?” He yells over the din. “I can’t hear you!”

Dancing Queen is blasting from his laptop speakers. They’re ruggedized laptops, so the speakers can produce quite a sound when propped up against a metal surface. And of course, Mark is singing along.

Mark’s voice is ringing off of all the metal surfaces, his singing is actually so loud it’s almost yelling. He’s giving Beck shit, waving his finger in Beck’s face as he dances along.

When Watney is done, Beck says “Your voice is actually surprisingly good.”

“Hey, cool,” he says, “All that singing to myself wasn’t for nothing.”

After that comment Beck can’t find it in himself to be annoyed as sings the next song loudly too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More quality incorrectthemartianquotes.tumblr.com dialogue.


	9. Chapter 9

Log Entry  
Mission Day 823

You know, the thing about space, it never just lets a good thing last.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 823

**Earlier That Day**

My eyes flew open this morning, 3:13 as usual. But the nightmare I had quickly leaves my mind, because something gets my attention the second I wake up.

It’s freezing in the Hermes.

—

The Hermes was a $300 million dollar spacecraft, named for the messenger of the Gods. It was a decades long project requiring an impossible amount of labor to build. ‘It was so expensive that they only built one.’ It was capable of bringing six people to Mars, descending into orbit, and bringing them back.

Because they only built one, the Hermes had an enormous amount of redundancy built into it. Almost every system had three or four redundant copies, no matter how large and complicated the systems were to build. There were only a handful of parts that had no redundancy, due to either portability or cost.

The main structural elements of the Hermes was one of them. They couldn’t build in redundancy to the structural frame. They standardized the external panels on the Hermes, and sent spares for these external panels. Some joints and plates, however, were just too custom, and too large to send spares.

These large structural elements that had no spares were known as _single points of failure,_ and multiplied the risk enormously. Space travel is risky, no matter how many precautions you take.

JPL compensated by making them out of the world’s best materials, testing them _again_ and _again_ and _again_ , for any impossible circumstance that could be thrown at them. They were flawless, and performed every time. Every single point of failure was engineered perfectly.

One of these tests was for reactor overheating, assessing whether or not they would hold up to higher than expected cabin temperature. They tested whether they maintained structural integrity in increased temperatures, for long durations of time. The single points of failure passed every test.

One of these single points of failure was the composite insulation that connected the cooling vanes to the rest of the cooling system. The cooling tubes were copper, a material that wouldn’t distort in any of the expected temperatures in space travel. The cooling system ran fixed copper tubes through the heatsink connected to the cooling vanes. A specialized liquid transmitted the heat from the tubes to the vanes.

The efficiency of the cooling vanes had been decreasing steadily. This created a heating problem in the bunkrooms of the Hermes. The crew had been compensating, Watney and Martinez in the gym, Johanssen and Beck in Johanssen’s room. Lewis was the Commander, bunking with no one, which left Vogel in his own hot bunkroom.

As the efficiency of the cooling vanes decreased, the temperature of the copper tubing in the outbound heat distribution rose. The copper tubing bore the increased heat, carrying warm water away from the vanes back to the reactor. The reactor then heated the warm water to above it’s normal heated temperature, carrying the water back to the cooling vanes. The cooling vanes failed to cool appropriately, thus leaving the water even warmer when it went back to the reactor.

The vanes, copper tubing and reactor could more than handle the increased temperature. Reactor efficiency diminished only slightly, well within acceptable ranges. The exterior panel could handle the temperature changes easily.

The insulation inside, connecting the heatsink to the cooling vanes, could not. As the temperature inside got hotter and hotter, the material became more pliable.

On Mission Day 823, the temperature rocked over the interior insulation’s melting point, and it flowed. It flowed away from the cooling vanes and towards the ship, thinning over the copper tubes carrying water away from the cooling vanes.

The thinning composite allowed more heat to leak out into deep space, dropping the temperature of the cooled water significantly. The temperature of the tubes dropped, allowing the composite to refreeze instantly. But the insulation had been compromised, and no longer contained heat effectively.

The space where the copper tubing lived was pressurized, allowing the water to remain liquid as it flowed through the pipes into the main ship compartment. The joist was the only layer between the pressure vessel and space. The thinned insulation allowed heat to escape from the pressure vessel into deep space.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 823

“Martinez,” I said, grabbing his shoulder and shaking hard. “Wake up!”

“What?” Martinez mumbled, turning over. “It’s okay, Mark,” he says sleepily, patting my arm.

I roll my eyes. “No, Martinez, Jesus.” I slam my hand on the comm. “Everyone, wake up! Go to the control room!”

Martinez sits up, and then he notices the temperature. “Why is it so cold?” he asks with trepidation.

“No idea,” I said. We went to bed last night in a temperature controlled spacecraft, and we woke up in the middle of the night to winter in Chicago. We’re lucky I woke up now before it became dangerous.

I’m already flying through the 0g to the comm room, and I’m thanking God that everyone else has woken up and gotten their asses in gear. Martinez is hot on my heels, and we all settle in where we sit.

“The readings are normal everywhere,” Johanssen says from her seat. “All temperature gauges are as expected.”

“Obviously not the ones in the pressure vessel,” I say. My fingers are freezing but they fly across the keyboard anyway.

“At this rate, the Hermes will be uninhabitable within hours.” Johanssen says. “I can’t find the problem. Everything about the life support reads normally. Actually…” she leans over, looking at the computer in disbelief. “The heating problem with the cooling vanes has corrected itself.”

“Obviously there’s an issue with that hardware,” Lewis says. “If the monitors aren’t telling us what’s wrong, we need to go take a look. Johanssen, Beck, suit up.”

“Hold on,” I say, standing up. “This is an engineering issue. You should be sending me with Johanssen.”

Lewis shook her head. “You can provide your expertise from in here.”

“We don’t want to waste time passing information back and forth. I might need to go out there anyways to look.” I grab my chair in frustration. “Lewis, send me.”

“No way,” Lewis shakes her head. “You’re a suicide risk. I’m not sending a crewmate who _wants_ to die into a fatal environment.”

There are just so many things wrong with that statement that it boggles my mind.

 _“One_ , your lives are at risk right now too, I would never do anything that endangers you guys,” I say angrily. _“Two_ , I am not going to go through the effort of putting on a space EVA suit just to die. Three, if you don’t send me, some sort of miscommunication might just kill us all anyways.”

She’s opening her mouth, but I wave my pointed finger in her face to shut her up.

 _“Four_ , and this is most important, I survived 549 sols on Mars all on my own. Alone. And I was _way_ more fucked up then than I am now. I can do this, Commander,” I say stubbornly.

She’s angry that I’m questioning her, eyes narrowed at me, but she’s considering it.

“Come on,” I urge her. “You know it’s the right call.”

“Fine,” Lewis says. “Fine. Johanssen, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

I kick off, fly down the hallway to the VAL, Johanssen at my side. It’s go time, I can feel it, adrenaline is galloping through my blood. There’s a problem, it needs solved, and I’ve become a pro at solving problems.

“You sure you can do this?” she asks, flying alongside me.

I roll my eyes, the second time in ten minutes. “Really, Johanssen? I survived flipping a rover with all of my life support inside. I can handle an insulation issue, especially when the entire crew is behind me.”

We’re at the VAL now. I throw open the lever without even noticing. We’re sliding my suits on, and something in me yearns for this, knows _I can get it done_. When there’s just nothing in the world but me and the problem.

“Suit on,” Johanssen says.

“Suit on,” I say, securing everything. We check each others’ suits over, confirm everything is sealed.

“Releasing airlock,” Lewis says. The air drains out slowly, because when it’s not an emergency transition the air is sucked back into the ship and preserved in air tanks.

“What’s the plan?” Johanssen asks.

“Watney?” Lewis asks.

“Gauges reading normal, losing temperature, cooling vane temps lowered, it’s an insulation issue, who knows where. Maybe some particulates loosened a connection.”

“Observation only EVA,” Lewis said.

The command annoyed me, but it made sense. Back in the real world, people were careful and observed problems and thought about things before they fixed them. Not like the Mark Watney school of space travel, where duct tape is an acceptable fix for insulation in your rover.

“Reactor performance improved because of the increased cooling,” Johanssen said. “So at least there’s that.”

“Yeah, we’ll be fucking ice cubes in an hour, but at least our engine will work,” I quip.

“Mark,” Lewis says sharply, and I detect an undercurrent of upsetness. That’s right, this is actually their first Deadly Emergency.

I look over at Johanssen, and she’s pale. Looks nervous. They’re probably all really fucking scared, actually. I’m not actually sure what that’s like - I died before I could take the time to be scared.

“Welcome to my world,” I say dryly. “Where your equipment was never designed for this and everything is trying to kill you.”

I’m not scared at all. All of that’s turned off, replaced with a deadly calm. I’m just eager to get out there and start poking around. In my experience, what follows the deadly calm isn’t so good, but we’ll address that when it comes to it.

The airlock releases, and we immediately hop outside and start climbing to the vanes along the exterior of the ship.

As we approach the cooling vanes, I can’t see evidence of what’s wrong. “We’re a hundred meters away, visual inspection looks normal from here,” Johanssen said. Bless her, remembering to keep everyone updated. I’m out of practice with narrating my actions reliably.

“Nothing wrong that I can see,” I say, crawling over with her.

That sounds like a good thing but that’s bad, very bad, because it just means we don’t know what the fucking problem is. If the problem were glaring and obvious we would already be started fixing it.

If we die only 75 days before we get to Earth, I’m gonna be pissed.

“50 meters, visual inspection normal,” Johanssen says.

“I’m taking a look at the readings, and the water coming out of the heatsink is actually colder than it’s supposed to be,” Lewis says. “It’s definitely something with the cooling vanes.”

“Well it can’t be broken vanes, or it would be too hot,” Martinez said.

“Insulation’s broke around the heatsink, then,” I say. “We’re here. Visual inspection on the exterior panels checks out.”

“Cooling vanes check out,” Johanssen says, grabbing the vanes and looking around. “Rate of decay holding steady as expected.” The lattice was decaying just as predicted. So, the cooling vanes aren’t the issue.

Lewis sighs. “Well, get inside and take a look.”

I grab my drill from the belt. Johanssen tethers a magnetic plate to the ship, designed for me to attach ship bolts and tools to so that they don’t float away in space.

This exterior panel is large, and weird. It’s curved for where the cooling vanes exit, and it’s larger than my body, so removing it is a slow and painstaking process. It takes a lot of drilling, and then it takes Johanssen and I working together to lift it off the ship.

“Commander,” I say, “I see the problem.” The insulation is visibly deformed, and when I run my hands along the surface I can feel how the surface of it is uneven. “The insulation is deformed.”

“Are you sure it isn’t manufactured that way?”

“Positive,” I say. “It’s rippled.” The material feels like still waves beneath my hand, rippled unevenly, and I know what melted plastic looks like.

“Shit,” Johanssen said, putting her hand on it too.

“Johanssen,” Lewis says. “Will this compromise any of the equipment?”

“Negative, Commander,” Johanssen said. “The reactor should continue to function.”

“What about the life support?”

“Life support has optimal operating temps,” I answer. “They can function in temperatures colder than humans can survive in. We could hide in our EVA suits, but I’m not sure we’d be able to get all the life support running correctly again if it reaches ambient temperature.” Ambient temperature in space is -100 degrees Celsius in this part of the solar system.

“The heating comes from the reactor,” Johanssen supplies. “The Hermes has a redundant heater, but primary heat is from reactor excess. Whatever heat is still present after heating the cabin is what gets vented to the cooling vanes.”

“Is there a way to vent heat from the reactor to the cabin?” Vogel asks. “Like, more heat?”

Johanssen thinks for a moment. “Yes, but in chunks. We could release another vent into the vessel. The escaping heat would counter it. It would be hot, but livable.”

“Hold on,” I say. “Something deformed this insulation, probably excess heat. Venting the reactor would just make it hot again, and the insulation might deform more.”

“Would it deform so much that it can’t hold in heat at all?” Lewis asks.

“No way to know,” I say. “I don’t want to risk it. If we do that, and we’re wrong, we’re Popsicles.”

“All right crew, any other ideas?” Lewis asks.

“I’ve got one,” I say, looking at the insulation. Their reaction to this idea is going to be negative. NASA never likes it when you need to cut into things.

“What if we cut into it, and use the backup sprayfoam insulation to fill in under it. Then we reseal it. It’ll be cold, but not so cold that we die.”

“Oh my God,” Martinez says, aghast.

“Cut into the insulation!” Lewis exclaims. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Hear me out,” I say. “Insulation doesn’t need to be airtight. When I brought the RTG into the rover, it was way too hot. It wasn’t completely unlivable, but I’m a big baby, so I wanted it to be cooler. I just cut insulation out of the rover. I kept cutting until I cut too much, and it started to lose heat. Then I just duct taped a small patch of insulation back up, and when it got too hot I took it down.”

There was a moment of silence as they processed the fact that I regulated a critical life environment with a patch of duct taped insulation.

“You don’t know that this is the same insulation,” Johanssen says warily.

“I do, actually, I’m looking at it,” I say. God bless NASA and how they regularize everything. “I have experience with this.”

“What, exactly, would you need to do here?” Lewis asks.

I sigh. She’s not gonna like this at all. NASA likes it even less when you turn off life support.

“Well, if I’m right, the cooling pipes are in the pressure vessel, because they go into the walls in the cabin. That means there’s air underneath this insulation. We’d need to release pressure in the cabin for me to cut in.”

“Watney -”

“We’d be in our EVA suits, all of us. Once the repair’s done, we repressurize the ship -”

“I understand,” Lewis says wearily.

“We’d also probably have to turn off the reactor, so that the reactor doesn’t break from the cold,” I say. “Johanssen?”

She shakes her head. “Yeah. We’d stop accelerating. It might lengthen our trip time.”

“So we’d have to decompress, and slow down,” Lewis said. “And if you screw up at all, we’re dead.”

“There’s not that much to screw up, honestly,” I say. “The hull panels are the part that are meant to be airtight. If we go with Johanssen’s plan, we might ruin the insulation so badly that we can’t fix it with sprayfoam insulation. We have the sprayfoam, but the sprayfoam can’t replace the entire insulation panel.”

“So we can’t just try the reactor venting first,” Lewis said.

“Yeah. If we sprayfoam, and it doesn’t work, we can always vent the reactor after.”

It’s another minute before she hits the comm again.

“Both of you, put it together and come back inside. I’m going to talk to NASA.”

“Affirmative, Commander, but believe me, they’re not going to be much help.”

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 823

Another hour and we have the insulation put back together, and we’re inside around the rec table.

“NASA confirmed that the insulation may not bear additional heat when coupled with the failing cooling vanes,” Lewis said, hands in her sweatshirt. “They want us to wait an hour while they come up with alternatives.”

We’re all wearing every article of clothing we’ve been issued, one on top of the other in ridiculous constricting layers. We’ve also all grabbed our thin blankets too, pulled them over ourselves in a feeble attempt to stave off the cold. We could get in our EVA suits, but we don’t want to dig into their filters before we need to.

It’s went from mild Chicago winter to cold Chicago winter in the last hour, and in another hour it’s going to be too cold for us to survive without our EVA suits on anyhow. This is a problem, because they can’t sit in the comm room and talk to NASA with the EVA suits on.

“I’m telling you, NASA’s useless,” I insist. “They love vetoing plans, but never offer any viable alternatives.”

“There’s got to be something,” Martinez says raggedly. “These can’t be our options.” They’re not used to this; they’re used to being prepared for every eventuality.

“That’s space, man,” I say.

I can see it on their faces. Their pale, drawn, cold faces. They think it’s the end, that they’re gonna die only 75 days away from home.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay,” I say to all of them. “It’s gonna be fine. Trust me.”

Vogel laughs, shivering. “I suppose this isn’t your first time around the block.”

“Hardly.”

“We’ve got an hour to pass,” Johanssen says, shoved up next to Beck. “Tell us how you got through it.”

“Through what? Mars?” I ask, nonplussed.

Johanssen shrugs. “Something that should have killed you.”

Something that should have killed me. “Hmmm,” I say, pulling my arms inside my sweatshirt like a ten year old. Christ, my arms are cold, this isn’t helping much. “Uh, the broken water reclaimer one is funny, because NASA was being annoying,” I say.

I tell them the story of the water reclaimer, of how NASA spent hours in board meetings just to tell me to sit on my ass while I died of thirst, of how I told them to fuck themselves and fixed it myself.

“You know, in the military, that’s grounds for dishonorable discharge,” Lewis commented dryly.

I shrug. “I’ll quit before they can discharge me. It’s not the only time NASA lost their shit. What did I write in my log that day?” I say to myself. “Something like ‘to NASA this is a disaster, to me this is Tuesday.’”

“Hey, we made it all the way to day 823 before something tried to kill us,” Beck offered. “So it’s not a weekly occurrence anymore.”

“With any luck, this will be the only time we almost die,” I agree. I lean back in my chair shivering in my clothes. “Wow, the last time I almost die in space. It’s sort of nostalgic.”

Martinez huffs, breath visible in the cold air. “That’s fucked up, Watney.”

I shrug. “This one’s a bit understated though,” I’m saying. “Usually it’s an instant. Like, the thing happens, and I say ‘wow, I’m really gonna be dead this time,’ then whatever it is _happens_ , and then - surprise! I’m not dead.”

I’m curious. “Are you getting that feeling?”

They all look at me blankly.

“You know, life flashing before your eyes, planning your last words?” I explain. “The I’m-about-to-die feeling.”

Johanssen is the first to answer, and her answer is a shrug. “Not really. I think if whatever we try doesn’t work, then I will.”

“I don’t know, I’m pretty fucking upset,” Martinez says. “What if I never get to see Marissa again?” his voice gets thick. “I’m tempted to go record a message.”

“Let Watney try whatever half-cocked plan he has first,” Lewis says humorously. _“Then_ we can all record our last goodbyes.”

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 823

NASA was exactly as useless as I thought they would be.

“They approved plan sprayfoam,” Lewis said when she got back from the control room. Her voice is a little incredulous, and a little strung out. “I said to NASA, ‘hey NASA, can Watney cut into the insulation with a knife and tear it out?’ and NASA said, ‘sounds fine.’”

I stand up, freeing myself from my blankets. “NASA does weird things when they’re desperate.”

“Well, lets go,” Lewis said. “Everyone into your EVA suits.”

They all suit up for the depressurization, but only Johanssen and I are going to go out, because even in an EVA suit it’s safer to be inside the ship than not.

“Stations,” Lewis says. Johanssen and I climb out to the hull, and everyone else depressurizes the ship. When you depressurize in a controlled way, the ship converts all the atmosphere back into it’s liquid form through a complicated process known as ‘running the air through an exterior tube so it turns to liquid,’ because the average temperature of interplanetary space is a lot lower than the average temperature of Mars. Basically, unlike when we blew the the nose VAL, we get to keep all our air.

The reactor is officially _off_ , too, so we’re on the clock. It doesn’t lengthen our trip time a lot - each hour it’s off is just another couple hours of travel time. But we’re so close to earth that no one wants to lengthen the trip any more than necessary.

Everyone else gets to sit in the control room, watch screens and poke keys with their fat EVA fingers while Johanssen gets to help me with the foam.

Getting the hull panel off is more annoying than it was the first time.

I’ve got a pencil in hand, and Johanssen is holding a ruler while I draw out the measurements for where I’m going to cut. Measure twice, cut once.

The plan is very scientific. We’ve double checked it with NASA. It is ‘cut where the insulation is thinnest,’ ‘spray 25L of insulation to the bottom of the thinnest insulation,’ then ‘superglue the insulation back in it’s slot.’

“All right, here it goes,” I say, taking my gigantic NASA X-Acto knife (that cost an absurd amount, I’m sure) and piercing it into the insulation.

Just like in the rover it cuts away easily, feeling like the solid foam insulation they made houses with in the 10’s and 20’s.

“Johanssen,” I say, holding the insulation square out. She takes the NASA sprayfoam can, which is as large as a fire extinguisher, and starts spraying the foam. It inflates quickly, and within ten minutes it’s set to it’s final size. The can says that it will become solid over the next hour, but we don’t need to wait that long.

Another couple minutes and we’ve used NASA $1000 superglue to glue the insulation back into it’s spot.

“That was surprisingly easy,” I say, maneuvering it together. It takes us twice as long just to put the panel back in place.

“NASA’s getting anxious,” Lewis’s voice says in the comms.

“Tell them we’re done,” I say.

Johanssen joins in. “Time to repressurize.”

Johanssen and I travel back to the VAL. We are going to wait in there, suited up, while the ship repressurizes and reheats. If the insulation holds for three hours, _then_ we get to take our suits off. Repressurization takes an hour, which means Johanssen and I get to float in our EVA suits in the VAL for four hours.

“At least we got to leave the ship spinning,” Johanssen says. “Takes a lot of fuel to get that thing spinning at the right speed again.”

I laugh, floating in the VAL. At least we don’t have to stand for four hours, just floating in the 0g. The space EVA suit is horrible to try and work in because of how clunky it is, but it’s surprisingly comfortable if all you’re doing is motionlessly floating.

“Yeah, really,” I said. “Martinez needs all the fuel he can get for the course adjustments.” If Martinez can’t get us into stable orbit with the fuel he has, we’re either going to crash into the ocean or fly out of orbit and die in space, and neither of those options appeal to me.

“He’ll do fine,” Johanssen said. “He put us 10 freaking meters from touchdown on Mars.”

“And he got my convertible into space,” I said. “That thing was a rattletrap.”

 

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 823

Four incredibly boring hours pass, and finally we’re allowed to take off our suits.

“Temp holding stable,” Lewis says. “17 degrees.” That’s about 63 Fahrenheit, which is certainly brisk, but not freeze-to-death cold.

“Thank God,” I say, peeling off the EVA suit.

Johanssen is taking hers off, and rips off the cap and musses her hair. After years at space, everyone’s hair has grown out considerably. Martinez, Vogel and I made an attempt at cutting ours, but Beck, Lewis and Johanssen just let their hair keep growing and growing. Lewis’s hair was halfway down her back at this point.

“My hair always hurts after having that EVA cap on,” she groans. “It makes your hair hurt.”

“Hey, I actually know what you’re talking about,” I say. “I let my hair grow out on Mars.”

“Really?” she asks, laughing. “How long?”

I gesture with my hand to just above my chin. “I had a real man bun.”

“Jeez, let yourself go much?” she laughs, putting away the EVA suit.

It was just a joke, but something about it stung. I was abandoned to die, of course I let myself go. Most days I couldn’t even make myself make an attempt at cleanliness.

I say nothing though, just silently finish putting away the EVA suit. That’s the sort of thing they don’t need to hear about.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 824

I couldn’t sleep all night. Just sat up, stared out the window, afraid that at any moment all the heat was going to rush out of the ship and we’d freeze to death so fast we wouldn’t even know what hit us. Don’t remember most of the night, but I certainly remember the way my muscles were aching when I realized it was time for breakfast and I’d hunched on a composite floor all night.

Because of this, I was hunched over, eating breakfast silently. Martinez slept last night. Not well, but he slept, so I don’t think that he realizes I was up all night. Kind of makes babysitting duty seem a little purposeless.

“Mark,” Lewis started the morning. “I wanted to say, good job for how you handled yesterday. You were at the top of your game.”

“Hey, I’m the one with experience,” I mutter. “You should be praising everyone else.”

“I was going to anyways,” Lewis smiles. “Good job everyone. Well executed.”

They all smile, tiredly mumble their thanks.

“I’m just glad it’s over with,” Martinez said. “We’re almost home.”

Anxiety spikes through my heart. I rub my hands through my hair, look at the table, try to hide my face. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about space, it’s that it’s never over. Space is always waiting to fuck you.

“The bunks are not like saunas anymore,” Vogel says. “Danke Gott.” Of course, Martinez and I are still sleeping in the gym because of babysitting duty.

“Yeah, I actually made Beck sleep in his own room,” Johanssen laughs. “I like him, but those beds are cramped for one person, let alone two. I had an entire bed to myself!”

“I guess we’re all in high spirits,” Lewis smiled. “It’s amazing what a good night of sleep will do.”

“Don’t go so far,” Johanssen said. “I kept waking up worrying about the ship.”

Everyone else hummed their agreement, talking about their nerves. I’m trying to listen, but I’m having trouble paying attention. My hands are running through my hair, and I’m trying to calm the frantic beating of my heart. _Something else will go wrong. It’s not over, never over_. I’m beginning to feel the world closing down around me, the characteristic start of a panic attack.

“Mark?” Beck asks. “You all right?”

My voice is shaky. “Yeah, just…” I say, waving a hand. “Tired,” I grit out between my teeth. I don’t want to have a panic attack right now, don’t want them swarming all around me like hummingbirds.

Now that there’s no problem to solve, I’m collapsing all over again.

“Mark,” Johanssen’s soft voice says.

“Not today, all right?” I say. “Not right now.” I stand up roughly. “I need a minute,” I say, voice desperate. “Just a minute, all right? Please.”

I’m holding my hand out, gesturing for them to stay seated while I climb up the ladder. I don’t know if anyone’s going to listen to me, and I don’t know if I want them to.

I get to my bunk room, my blessedly cool bunk room, and sit directly on the floor. I fold my knees up, put my head in my hands, feel my heart beating wildly out of control. The words are ricocheting around my head. _It’s never over. Something else is going to go wrong. It’s not over._

Beck’s breathing exercises, in through the nose, into the stomach, out through the mouth. Don’t dwell on the thoughts. My attempts to calm myself are completely useless, and my heart starts beating faster and faster. I wrap my hands around my head, pull on my hair, and the pain is crisp and clean and distracts me from the fuzzy feeling of suffocation growing in my chest.

Now I’m thinking someone _should_ have followed me, because the sense of doom is swiftly closing in on me, possibility becoming reality again. If you were dead you wouldn’t be collapsed on the floor right now feeling like you’re having a heart attack, Mark, you’d be at peace.

 _But if I were dead the crew wouldn’t have fixed the insulation issue_ , I tell myself. _You saved their lives._

No, they’re smart and they have all of NASA. They don’t need me to come fix their problems. If I were dead when I should have been they would have been home safe by now.

I lay down on the floor, curled up on my side still pulling my hair. The floor is blessedly cool, the pain from pulling my hair is crisp, and it eases my suffering slightly.

It always comes back to this; the fact that I just want it to be fucking over. I may be worthless, or I may be important. I may be loved, I may not be. I don’t know. At moments like this, when my heart is threatening to explode out of my chest, it just doesn’t matter. I just want the pain to be fucking over.

Again, if this were a book, someone would burst through the door right now. ‘Watney, you’ve had your minute!’ they’d say. But they haven’t. They’re giving me my space, and I swear there is a God and he’s a dick because they always give me my space exactly when I don’t need it.

Something burns through me, and I stand up roughly. It’s the same urge to die, but instead of being slow and thumping and dreadful it’s burning through me like fire. My eyes dart around the room, and despite myself they search for ways to just end the fucking suffering.

There’s a drawer, right there, it’s Beck’s medical supplies back from when he was treating me for withdrawal and I know there’s a bottle of Vicodin in there and that’s a lot fucking better than any airlock decompression. Before I can stop myself, the burning fire drives me to the drawer. But just as I arrive at it, I pull the drawer open slowly, pick up the bottle slowly like it’s a loaded gun.

My ears are ringing, I’m holding the bottle in my hand, I haven’t had any since before they rescued me. I don’t even have to take enough to die, just enough to ease the pain, right? But I’m clean, I’m _clean_ , I don’t want to do this. It’s not even that they’d catch me high, or that I have to be ready for any emergency, because I can fake it and I can fix a damn spaceship while I’m high. It’s just that I don’t want this for myself, drifting around a spaceship high because I can’t handle life. If my only options are to be high or to be dead, I just want to get it over with.

Fear spikes through my heart at the thought of death. I unclench my hand, drop the bottle in the drawer and shove it closed roughly before anyone can catch me.

The door opens suddenly and Beck’s standing there. “Watney?”

“What?” I say, and my voice is shaky, and I realize my body is shuddering, from panic or suicide I don’t know. “Were you just standing out there?”

“I was going to come in if I heard something, and I did,” Beck said. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” the answer is out of my mouth in a flash. “Got frustrated. Slammed a drawer.” It’s technically the truth, but it’s a lie, and I’m horrified by how easily it falls from my lips. The urge to die is still burning through me like fire.

Beck steps in, leaves the door open, closes in on me for a hug.

“No,” I say, holding my hand out.

I don’t want a hug, not today, not now, because I’m exactly the sort of person I despise, looking to get high instead of deal with my problems. It was okay on Mars, because it was _Mars._ But I’m rescued, there aren’t any problems anymore, it’s just another pathetic man trying to take drugs because he can’t deal with life.

Beck takes a step back, holds his hands up, mouths ‘okay’ looking hurt. “What’s going on,” he asks instead, taking care to use a plain tone of voice.

Here I am, having a panic attack _again_ , and I’m wondering if it’s ever going to get better, that’s what’s going on.

“Nothing,” I say, voice shaky. They’ve seen me anxious enough times by now to maybe buy that lie. “Just had a bad moment there.”

I suppose it’s the truth; I had a bad moment there. A bad, really bad, very bad moment.

“Just sit down,” Beck said, pointing to the bed and sitting in the folding chair next to it.

I walk my shaky legs over, and my protesting limbs practically collapse onto the bedframe. I’m shaking like a leaf, but somehow my shaking spine still holds me up. I fold my knees up and lean against the wall, and I _know_ it looks pathetic, but my dignity has been gone for a very long time.

“Want to talk about it?” He asks.

I shake my head. “Not really.”

“What can I do?” Beck asks.

I laugh. “The same thing as always, Beck. Fucking nothing.”

There is just nothing anyone can do. No one can put me back together, make me the way I was.

I just want to be okay. I just want to wake up in the morning, not the middle of the night with a scream on my lips. I want to have a nice day, relaxing in the squishy chair or playing cards with everyone instead of freaking out all the time. I just want my limbs to unwind for ten seconds instead of being in constant pain. I want to get through a day without Mars literally invading my senses. I just want to go to bed at night without depression ripping my heart out of my chest. I want the pain to be over.

Beck settles for leaning back in his chair, content just to physically keep me company.

It’s selfish, but I want to be the man I was before all of this. The man I was was not a good guy, you know? But I want to be him, because he wasn’t suffering. He woke up every day excited about life, full of energy. He did so much, his life was so full. It was good to be him.

My eyes are closed, and my head is pressed back against this hard wall. Beck is just sitting there, twiddling his thumbs, waiting for me to get through whatever episode I’m having.

I’m never going to be him again. And being me now is awful. I just want it to be over.

My body urges me up off the bed but I don’t listen, not when Beck is sitting at the foot of the bed like a guard dog. If I get up to run out the airlock it has to be at full speed, or I’ll never make it.

But I hear that small voice again.

It’s the real Mark, Mark Watney, the guy who piled into a ship with his 5 best friends to go see Mars. The guy with an energetic voice and a ready suggestion. That guy isn’t me anymore, he’s been a ghost, been a ghost for years, but apparently his memory still lingers in my mind.

 _Come on_ , he’s saying. _Think positive._

Think positive. I weigh the suggestion.

I’m still shuddering, sitting on this empty bedframe. Beck is just sitting there and he’s picked up one of my books, opened it up like he’s pretending to read it.

Think positive.

Do I really want to listen to this guy? This… _naive_ guy who thought he could just load into a rocket and blast himself to Mars like it would all be all right?

I stand up on my shaking legs, immediately push out the doorway. Beck’s on his feet in an instant, following me. I don’t care, they’re like little tails, but right now it doesn’t matter to me. I go up into 0g but don’t go to the airlock, continue to go past it.

I climb down into the rec room, go and stand squarely in front of the big window. The rest of them are still there and they’ve started talking to me, but I ignore them. I’m having something of a moment.

My eyes land on Mars.

Mark Watney decided to go to Mars. He spent almost an entire decade training, pushing, practicing to get selected to be an Astronaut and go to Mars. Mark Watney feels like a different man. But when I get to Mars, Mark Watney starts to be me. Mark Watney got stranded Sol 6. I wanted to die on Sol 6. Mark Watney wanted to stay and fight. I just wanted to let go.

Mars is still larger than the other planets. We’re over halfway home, but halfway home still leaves Mars large in the distance, the size of a dime in my vision. It’s red and orange and hazy, just like I remember it.

 _You’re not there anymore_ , the voice says encouragingly. _You made it off_.

It’s hard for me to think that everyone thinks I’m the guy who stayed and fought. I’m just a guy who suffered, the guy who woke up every morning a little more ready to plunge a knife into the Hab canvas and explode. Vogel thinks I’m some sort of inspiration, but I’m just some miserable son of a bitch who got high every day. By the time the Hermes picked me up, I was ready to die. I didn’t even think I was going to be saved; I’d said my last goodbyes to God like it was the end.

 _But you fought, and you won,_ he said. _You’re Mark Watney. You did it. You really did it. You can do this too._

_Just try._

I turn on my heel to look at the crew. They’re standing in front of me in varying states of confusion, because they were speaking to me and I was ignoring them.

On Sol 6, I sat in the Hab, held a syringe of morphine above my leg. Looked at the martian landscape and prepared myself to die. But I didn’t. I listened to this voice that said _try_ , and I tried. And look. I escaped. And now I’m standing here in front of my crew, I get to see all of their faces again, get to touch all of them again.

Beck’s the nearest to me so I pull him in for a hug. He asks what’s up, but wraps his arms around me anyways. I ignore him, staring at the faces of my crew looking at me.

For once, I take a moment to really appreciate the contact. I’m only here to have this hug because I listened to that voice that said _try_.

 _Just try_ , he says. The man I used to be.

Every time I harden my resolve, it hurts more. I’ve hardened my resolve so many times only to have it torn down again.

It feels like dragging myself off the ground, out of hell, the dirt and the rocks scraping my body on the way up, but I feel my resolve hardening again. It physically hurts, like rocks scraping across my skin. This time it’s agonizing as I pull myself together but fuck, I do it. I pick up all the pieces of Mark Watney off the floor and put them back together, because I tried and I _got off of Mars_ and I can’t fucking give up now.

And hey, I know the drill. I can always kill myself tomorrow.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 824

Watney snorts into Beck’s shoulder out of nowhere, an abbreviated laugh.

“Mark?” Beck asks.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, patting Beck’s arm and letting go. “Just had a bad moment, but it’s over.” He takes a deep sigh, appearing to gather himself. “So, what now?”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 827

Lewis walked into the rec room just as Martinez and I were laughing hard, looking at her tablet with some news. “Okay, here’s the situation -”

I’m in a good mood, so the words pour from my mouth. “Your parents went away on a week's vacation.”

Lewis blinks at me for a moment.

“They left the keys to the brand new porsche. Would they mind? umm- well, of course not.” I’m getting into the song.

Martinez, bless his heart, starts beatboxing the beat.

I start singing in tune with Martinez’s beatboxing. “I'll just take it for a little spin and maybe show it off to a couple of friends. I'll just cruise it around the neighborhood -” I start singing the entire song to Lewis, whose expression is glowering more and more by the second.

The rest of the crew is present, I’m getting scattered applause.

“ - I picked up my car phone to perpetrate like i was talking,” I mimic picking up and hanging up the phone. “ The sun roof was open, the music was high, and that girl's hand was steadily moving up my thigh…”

I’m really pulling off the song, my chest is swelling as Beck, Johanssen and Vogel’s scattered applause becomes cheering and whooping. It’s good, this is a good feeling blossoming into my heart as Johanssen stands to clap and cheer.

We reach the end of the song and I pant hard. They’re all looking at me with smiles, and my chest feels warm and good.

“All right!” Martinez cheers, panting hard from his beatboxing.

I stand and bow. “Thank you, thank you. Just a little something I know. So what’s up?”

Lewis is very deeply glowering at this point.

“The temperature’s dropped.”

The thrill of pulling off that song drops into icy fear.

“What?”

Lewis is frowning. “Just a tenth of a degree, but at that rate of loss we’ll be dead by the time we get home.”

We’re all still standing but our faces are drawn.

“Well, shit,” I say.

“That’s what you said last time,” Lewis said. “But we’ve already got a solution. Johanssen’s reactor. How long will it take you to vent a second exhaust into the cabin

Johanssen blinked. “Uh, not long. It’s actually just a manual control in the reactor room.”

“What can we expect once it’s done?” Lewis asks.

Johanssen’s still reeling. “Temperature will keep rising until the insulation loses enough heat that it reaches a stable temp.”

Lewis waves her hand. “Get it done. Vogel, go with her.” They both run off to the reactor room.

“We should get to the control room,” she says to the rest of us, and launches herself up the ladder. I follow them, dazedly.

It’s floating towards the control room that it hits me. My solution didn’t work. We’re relying on some balancing game with Johanssen’s reactor to get us home, something entirely out of our control. It’s the sandstorm all over again.

Of all the things running through my body, the most prevalent is anger. Fuck that small voice for talking me into optimism, fuck that small voice for talking me into life every damn time it did. I’m going to help them get through this, but after this, I’m going to -

It’s then that we pass the VAL in 0g, and it practically tears my eyes away from where I’m going. I could kick off, go out of it right now. I stare at it as we drift by.

 _NO!_ I grab the bar and thrust myself away. Not right now, not in front of all of them.

It’s my temper tantrum in the airlock all over again. I’m just so sick of this fucking game, one thing after another. Maybe there’s a good day here and there, but how can you live your life when you’ve just got an axe hanging over your head all of the time.

But I’m logical, even now. I’m going to wait to see if her reactor solution works, wait to see if the crew is all doomed too.

We plant ourselves in the control room chairs, and by the time we get there they’ve already vented the reactor into the cabin. Nothing to do but wait.

“We’re on our way up,” Johanssen says over the radio. “Be there in ten.”

“How long until we know if it’s working?” Lewis asked.

“The temp will rise, I can’t say when it will max out. We just have to wait and see.”

“Just have to wait and see,” Martinez replied. “I hate this. There’s nothing we can do except wait and see if we die.”

I swallow, voice too thick to form words. God I am so _sick_ of this fucking game. I want to punch the Hermes walls, _dare_ it to kill me, but I don’t want to kill everyone else on board. The airlock all over again. I thought I was sick of it then, _oh no_ , I hadn’t been through all of this yet, didn’t know that even when it was supposed to be over it wouldn’t really be over.

I launch myself out of the chair, to go have a temper tantrum somewhere else before I smash the computer in front of me.

“Where are you going, Mark?” Lewis demands, currently in Commander mode.

“Somewhere else,” I snap, rocketing out of there as fast as I can muster.

She’s hot on my heels in an instant.

“Get back to the control room,” I rumble at her. “You’re the Commander, go command.” My hands are fisting at my sides, and again that VAL tears my eyes away whether I want it or not.

“We have a mission critical situation, Mark -”

“I wouldn’t have removed myself from the situation if I thought I could perform,” I raise my voice at her. “Go!”

“Need I remind you that -”

I turn the corner into the lab ladder violently, throw myself down it. I need to get somewhere else, somewhere I can stomp and yell or I’m going to do something worse like tear my hair out.

“- I am your commanding officer!”

“I am aware!” I turn to her, yelling. “Please! Following me isn’t productive! Go handle the situation!”

I round the corner into my lab, hoping she’ll go away because whether or not she’s gone I’m going to start throwing things.

“You not responding to a mission critical situation isn’t productive!”

My hand is near a cup of pencils so I grab it and throw it at the wall. The loud clanging sound it makes is satisfying, and the way Lewis’s face morphs to shock is even more so.

“I can’t right now!” I yell at her. “Just give me ten minutes, all right?!”

Her commanding face has already snapped back. “You don’t have ten minutes!”

I squeeze my eyes shut, turn around, find a tray holding papers of something and sweep them onto the floor. It’s less satisfying, so I slam my hand down on the table.

“I never have ten minutes!” I turn to her and there are tears in my eyes but I’m angry, _so_ angry. “I never have ten minutes, Melissa! I gotta fix the Hab bomb I created or I’ll die! Gotta fix the life support or I’ll die! Gotta fix the airlock or I’ll die!”

I turn around, grab something else, can’t crush it in my hand so it gets thrown on the floor. “Whoops, looks like I blew up my fucking potatoes! Gotta fix the airlock pissing air or I’ll die! Gotta fix the fucking rover or I’ll die!”

It’s not satisfying to throw things any more, I’m giving up. I slam my hand down on the table like I used to, feeling the metal reverberate up my arm, and every time I do that I’ve always dimly wondered if I’ll break my hand. “And the Hermes was supposed to be safe, but no, I’m back here _again_ , right where I started, waiting for some fucking duct tape and prayer plan to save my ass.”

I kick the table away and everything on it shakes as it slams into the wall, and that one is satisfying. “It’s like the tenth fucking time I’ve faced down death this year and you know what?”

I look up at her face and she’s just shocked, sympathetic, and I realize my face is red and my throat hurts and there are tears streaming down my face but I don’t care.

“I’m tired!” I cry, waving my hand at everything. “I’m tired! I’m done with this game! I just want it to be over!”

Her eyes are wide, she’s getting emotional but I don’t stop. “So NO, I’m not going to your control room, because I’m more likely to try and break the fucking Hermes than I am to fix it right now!”

Vogel appears behind her, probably sent as some sort of representative to see what the hell is going on.

I kick the other thin table in the lab room, and it’s got potted ferns growing on a lower shelf so when it slams into the wall all the ferns and dirt come spilling out. I stare at the sight, and something about it just feels like a fucking pathetic metaphor for my life.

“God damnit,” Lewis curses, tears in her eyes. “Vogel, stay here with him, I’ve got to go fix the heating.”

She gives me a long look, sorry and sad. “After I’m done, I’m going to come talk to you.” In a flash of her red hair she’s gone.

Vogel steps in after her, and it occurs to me that he was probably sent because he’s the biggest and strongest of all of us.

I turn around, and my eyes land on the expanse of space out the window. That’s all my life is anymore, this fucking useless void.

I grab one of the bookshelves lining the walls and tear it down, watching it bang on it’s side and all the pieces fall out of it. This lab is completely trashed but I don’t care because absolutely none of it matters.

“Mark! You’ll ruin the experiments!” Vogel exclaims, stepping in.

“I don’t care!” Is my petulant response as I kick things around on the floor. “I hope that the heating kills us quickly so I don’t have to fucking feel this anymore.”

Vogel is making a pathetic attempt to pick things up, kneeling down and righting potted ferns.

“Stop!” I yell at him. “Just stop.”

He looks up at me, drops what he’s holding, and backs up. I feel instantly bad for yelling at him.

“I know you’re just trying to help,” I groan, the anger still vibrating inside of me.

I grab a cup, throw it at the opposite wall, but the clanging sound isn’t satisfying anymore.

He’s standing now, just looking at me, and my sniffling is the only sound.

“Mark?” Vogel says after a beat.

“I’m just so tired of fighting,” I say, and I can’t get through the sentence without feeling my face turn and tears coming out of my eyes. “So tired.”

Vogel immediately pulls me into a hug, and he must have been working out a lot on the Hermes because his chest and arms are broad and I feel engulfed in his arms.

“You are almost home,” his warm voice says. “You are almost done.”

I push away from him. “I don’t want almost done!” I yell at him. “I can’t do it anymore!”

Vogel’s next words are shouted. “You can!”

I’ve never heard him raise his voice, it’s got a hard edge I’ve never heard, and the sound floors me. “You have fought for years. 71 more days, and you are done. Do not stop now when victory is so close.” He’s yelling, but he’s not angry, just determined for me to hear him.

“It won’t be done when I get back to earth,” I say, tears still on my face. “I’m gonna be fucked up forever.”

“No you’re not,” he says, matching my volume. “You will be healed sooner than you think.”

“What on earth makes you say that?” I snap.

Vogel shrugs. “I thought I’d never heal.”

“You didn’t get abandoned on Mars!” I’m yelling again. “Alone on an entire planet, Alex! It’s not a simple case of depression I’m fighting here. I’m fucked up, for life. Like Beck’s monkeys, never reintegrated again.”

“I don’t know what you mean by Beck’s monkeys, but it doesn’t matter,” Vogel insisted. “The trauma is over. All that is left is for you to heal!”

“Then why the fuck am I getting worse!” I yell at him. “Every day I’m worse!”

“It won’t be that way forever!” Vogel yells.

“You and Mark Watney,” I snark, more to myself than to him. “Your fucking endless optimism.”

Vogel looks nonplussed. “What?”

“I can remember the guy I used to be!” I snap. “He’s still in here somewhere, constantly telling me to _have hope_ and _it’ll be okay_. He’s a fucking retard.”

Johanssen’s voice rings out over the comms. “Temperature rising, expected to level out at 28 degrees.”

“See?” Vogel says. “He’s right. We get to live.”

“Today,” I sneer. “But what about tomorrow? Or the day after that?”

“71 days,” Vogel responds. “We only need 71 more days.”

The number is so small that I begin to deflate. Only 71 days. I held on for three hundred Sols, starving to death slowly in a rover with no one to talk to. I held on through all the nightmares and weird hallucinations and starvation slowly killing me. 71 more days of insanity is doable.

“Fine,” I say. “71 more days.”

I throw a cup down on the ground as a final _fuck you, Mars_ , and walk out past Vogel to get to the control room. The VAL holds my eyes as I pass by, and I don’t try to fight it this time.

“Sorry, just had to have a temper tantrum,” I say. “What’s the status?”

Lewis shrugs. “You missed all the fun. We’re just sitting and waiting.”

Vogel steps in after me, but doesn’t say anything as he settles into his seat.

There’s an awkward silence for a few minutes.

“We heard it all,” Martinez admits. “Sorry, felt like someone should tell you.”

I shrug, anger already draining. “Don’t care who heard.”

The awkward silence stretches on a little. My anger turns to guilt, swimming around inside of me. I shouldn’t be lashing out at them, not _them_ of all people.

“I’m…” I heave a sigh. God, I have _so much_ to be sorry for. “I’m sorry. Sometimes I just get a little fed up with the game.”

“Have as many tantrums as you want,” Beck says, looking at his screen. “Just don’t break our lifeboat.”

“I wouldn’t break your lifeboat,” I mumble. “I’d never endanger you guys that way.”

Lewis smiles softly. “I know. That’s why I didn’t handcuff you to something.”

“You have handcuffs?” I laugh.

Lewis pulls a pair out from her pants pockets. “NASA is worried you’re going to try and kill us all.”

I snort. “I may kill myself, but I’d never kill you guys.”

The joke unsettles them, and they all shift in their seats.

“Sorry,” I mumble, and I can feel my face turning red.

“It’s all right,” Beck says tiredly, on behalf of everyone else. “We understand.”

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 827

Several tense hours later, the temperature reached stability and Johanssen could measure the rate of heat loss.

“Temperature doesn’t reach fatally low levels for 90 days,” she said. “We’re going to make it home.”

We’re all too exhausted to cheer loudly, so we cheer quietly, raising our fists in the control room. It will be cold in 30 days but for now it’s far too hot, even in our thin NASA jumpsuits.

“Thank God,” Martinez said, rubbing his face. “I can’t wait to see Marissa.”

“It would have been really anticlimatic just to die now,” Johanssen laughs.

Lewis and Vogel nod at each other, smiles on their faces.

I don’t want to be in here with this cheering group. I get up and slip away into the hallway as subtly as can be done on a crowded spaceship.

This time I don’t pass the VAL. I stop in front of it, a respectable distance, knowing someone will be hot on my heels.

Somehow, even in the dead of space, life wins again. But for what?

Space stretches out before me, black and empty.

This game is agonizing, it’s terrible, but it’s the only game I know how to play anymore. Problems come up, and after a little temper tantrum Mark Watney is locked down and ready to do. But when there’s no threat, it’s just me and that emptiness. I honestly don’t know what to do with myself if there isn’t a problem to solve.

“Mark,” Beck says quietly.

I jump, hard, because even though I knew he was coming it still surprised me.

“What are you thinking?” he asks, floating beside me.

I draw a deep breath and collect myself.

“What was it all for?” I ask, eyes still on the void. “Why did I live?”

“Because you’re strong,” he quietly says. “And brave -”

“Not how I lived,” I interrupt him, frowning. “Why?”

He doesn’t have a ready response. “I don’t know what you’re asking.”

I gesture at that VAL door. “All I want to do, every day, is…” I motion at it again. “Why did I live if that’s how this story ends?”

For once, there’s no vibrating emotions in my chest, nothing tearing me apart. Just a quiet space between us and a lot of questions without answers.

“Well, the story hasn’t ended,” Beck points out quietly. “So that’s not why you lived.”

“Why, then?”

Beck looks at me. “To go home. Heal. Live the rest of your life. Be happy.”

I snort. “Yeah, okay.” That seems so unattainable it’s ridiculous.

After this, I understand why soldiers with PTSD sign up to be deployed again. Something inside me wants more problems, because if I’m focused on solving a problem I don’t have to think about everything that happened in between. But redeployment isn’t an option for me, and I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t take it anyways.

“I’m serious!” Beck insists. “You’ll get better.”

“So everyone thinks. But what would you know?”

This time the response is meant to be snippy. I consider floating away to put an end to the exchange, but I’m too tired to really care.

“I know you, Mark. You’re the guy who beat Mars.”

I shake my head. Mars is still trying to kill me, millions of miles away. I haven’t beat anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know in reality Sebastian Stan is 6ft, Matt Damon is 5’10”, Aksel Hennie is 5’8” and Michael Peña is 5’7”, but I’m picturing Chris Beck as the shortest of the men, then Mark, then Martinez, then Vogel at the largest. You can get on board or get out.
> 
> To those of you wondering about the science - it's mostly sound in principle. I don't put as much thought into the science as Andy Weir, so I'm not sure that the temperatures would actually be such that this would happen, and I'm not sure about the engineering of the materials so I don't know that they would melt, but it's within the range of possibility. Space really is that cold, and composites do melt. I highly doubt NASA would put insulation against the inside of the pressure vessel for exactly this reason, but temperature and pressure are big constraints for reactors, so they might. I'm not science-y enough to know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is finished, not perfect. I just wanted to get it up here for you guys.

Log Entry  
Mission Day 833

Johanssen’s reactor solution is holding stable, so life has returned to something more or less stable. It feels exactly like on Mars; neverending boredom with a side order of horrifying terror. At any moment, the insulation could go and we could all die right where we stand. But until that happens, we’re just fucking bored and have to find something to do.

They’re coping with the brand new increased risk of death exactly how I would expect, which is to say they sit around the rec room a lot and worry together. Family Time has turned into everyone wringing their hands and talking about what they’re afraid will break next. I’ve found Johanssen and Beck crying together more than once.

I’m coping with it exactly how I usually do, too, which at the end of Mars was to dissociate so heavily I forget who I am or where I am. I wish I could say it made the trip pass by faster, but it doesn’t, because being that confused is upsetting and usually leads to a bad night full of suffering.

It just all feels so fucking futile. Here I am, rescued, and I’m still suffering. What was the point of living if this is what life is now? I should have just died before anyone wasted three billion dollars on me.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 835

This whole mess with the insulation has provided great canon fodder for Family Time discussions. Beck’s on some lengthy diatribe about what the anxiety of living in a time bomb is like, sharing some sort of personal revelation about how it makes him appreciate every moment or some shit. I’m only so critical of it because I had the ‘I-could-die-any-moment’ philosophical revelations almost 15 months ago, and have eclipsed past that, past existential questions, past suicidal ideation, all the way into ‘Am-I-even-real’ territory.

His philosophical revelations are annoying. Yeah, I know I’m supposed to be nice because for most people near-death experiences are some sort of big deal, but I’ve had so many by now I should have a rewards card. After your fifth, you get a complimentary psychiatric condition.

Oh, god, they’re still talking about appreciating every moment.

“I just keep looking at the walls, and I know that this won’t happen, but I just keep imagining them breaking,” Johanssen said. “And suddenly I pay attention to everything around me, because what if it were my last moment?” Her voices sounds so eager.

I can’t help it. I audibly scoff.

Johanssen and everyone else look at me suddenly.

“Sorry, it’s just…” I shrug, playing off my frustration. “I’m used to the feeling.”

Yeah, I’m used to it. I’m so used to it that early on, I spent whole days just staring at Hab canvas, imagining it tearing down the center. I got so used to every moment being my last moment that it became my new normal. When every moment is your last moment, it’s hard to get attached. It’s hard to get attached to doing anything, thinking anything, when literally any moment you could be wiped away so cleanly that it would look like you were never there. It’s the instant in a near death experience where you almost die, stretched into months, into years. I could feel my own soul leaving my body.

Lewis leaned forward. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.

Uh, _no_. I shake my head, wave my hand for them to continue.

“63 days,” Martinez says reassuringly. “63 days, and this will all be behind us.”

Something in me just can’t believe it, can’t believe that in 63 days we’ll be back on earth. It’s easy for me to believe I’ll be dead in 63 days, but not for me to believe I’ll be home.

 _Just hold on, Mark_ , the small voice inside me says. _Only 63 more days._

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 835

The conversation wound down, and we all went back to our respective bunk rooms, and as usual Martinez and I went back to the gym.

It’s kind of a shame that I won’t get to sleep in my Hermes bunk room ever again. I slept there for a few days in between gravity rehab and losing my marbles, but it wasn’t the same.

I have fond memories of sleeping in that room on the trip there. Shit, I just have fond memories of the trip there. We were all so happy, so carefree. We were so excited to see Mars. The memories feel light and happy, like childhood memories. All of my memories from before Mars feel lighthearted and distant. It was just a year or two ago, but it feels like a lifetime ago.

I’m sitting up against the wall, and Martinez has already nestled into his blankets on the floor. My eyes close heavily, and water a little at the memories. They _feel_ carefree; I can actually _feel_ the happiness and lightheartedness in the memories. We actually all stood in front of the window and watched as Mars got closer. When Johanssen spotted Acadalia Planitia, we all crowded around to get a look in the telescope.

God, if only I knew what that shithole would do to me. If only I could tell Mark to go home. I thought that going to Mars was fulfilling a lifelong dream. And it was, it really was. The day we landed I was so, so happy. I looked out at those red horizons and thought that I’d finally done what I was supposed to do.

Well, at least Mark Watney got to achieve his dream before he died.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 837

That Vicodin is still in my bunk drawer. Martinez and I are still sleeping in the gym, and I haven’t returned to my bunk room since then. It’s not like the Vicodin is taunting me that much, or anything, it’s just that my thoughts keep winding back to it.

It’s not about killing myself, or anything. I can always throw myself out of the airlock or out of a tall building for that. It’s that… it’s my last chance to get high. Look, I know, it’s stupid, I’ve been clean since we got on this ship, and it’s not like I was ever _addicted_ addicted, but… After we touch down, they’re not going to so much as let me near a _beer_ for a decade. And fuck, being institutionalized and studied like a bug is bad enough, but I don’t even get to enjoy the use of drugs to help myself forget it’s happening. It’s the cherry on top of this fucking mess.

—

Log Entry  
Mission Day 840

Something in me is possessive of my experiences on Mars. Not possessive of the rote facts; I’m happy to talk all day about the ins and outs of the science. NASA is constantly asking me for scientific details about what happened, botanists and chemists messaging me to ask for measurements and observations. I don’t mind that at all.

I’m… I’m possessive of what happened to me. Nobody else in the world can understand what it’s _actually like_ to be alone on a planet, and no heartfelt conversation is ever going to change that. You can ask me every procedural question in the planet about Mars, and I won’t care, but not this. I don’t want to talk about this.

The only thing anyone really knows is what I shouted at them with a gun pointed to my head.

The fact still sticks in my mind. They only know what I shouted at them on Day 790, or The Day Mark Watney Lost His Marbles. Part of me loves the secrecy, loves the drama. Part of me loves the idea that they sit around, and talk behind my back, but all they have to go on is this. Part of me loves that my secrets are mine alone.

But… they turned around for me. The rest of me realizes they deserve to know. Even if it isn’t the same as knowing what it was actually like, they at least deserve to know exactly what it is they saved me from. And the rest of me wants them to know.

There’s even a part of me that wants everyone to know, wants to write a book, wants to tell people how _bad_ it can get, so that other people never have to suffer like I do. I’m not sure that part of me will ever get what it wants, but it’s there, like a guiding light. It’s what old Mark Watney would have wanted.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 840

What I wrote in my Log Entry earlier stayed on my mind. For the first time, I find myself wanting to talk at Family Time.

Beck is talking about his sister, or something to do with going back home. Like every day, I’m not paying very close attention. These days nobody gets offended if I space out or lose track of a conversation.

Usually I love meaningless conversations I can’t participate in. I’m not asked to speak up, I’m not asked any questions, and I can just sit at the table with the hollow feeling of depression without being required to perform. I can just sit there silently and count the minutes until I can just fucking lay in bed. (To be fair, the crew hasn’t made me perform for them since Mission Day 790. Maybe they were never making me perform in the first place).

Today, though, I’m not doing that.

Beck is still talking. Something in me wants to talk about the awful, soul-sucking shit from Mars. My eyes dart back and forth between people at the table, waiting for an opening in the conversation that I know is never going to come.

I can’t blame them for not giving me an opening. Most of the time when they ask me about Mars, really about Mars, I immediately rip their head off, or I fold into myself so deeply I don’t talk for the next seven hours. It just never pays off for anyone.

Or maybe they are not giving me an opening because they can’t tell it’s my agenda, because never before have I wanted to voluntarily dwell on it.

It’s not like I’m not still in pain. That horrible emptiness still lives in my chest, and I know talking about it is going to feel like ripping knives out of my throat, it always does.But today, inside me, there’s just a _need,_ like talking about it might somehow make the pain more bearable.

I don’t even have a goal in mind. For once, I’m not searching for praise, or angling for a pat on the back, or a ‘good job, Mark,’ or any other patronizing bullshit. I just want the words to be said out loud, and for someone to _listen_. Some part of me just wants to dredge it all up for no good fucking reason.

_Mark, you can’t talk about it to them. You’re just dragging them down into the mud with you. They’re already miserable, don’t make it worse._

Lewis looks up at me during a lull in the conversation, and for a moment everyone does. They’re waiting to see if I’m going to contribute. I know the routine; I have a split second to do something, and if I don’t the conversation is going to move past me again.

They look at me. I dig inside myself to try and find the will to say something, but nothing comes up.

The moment is passing, and they all turn to look away.

“Ah,” I say. The sound is stupid, and immediately I regret saying anything.

Their heads snap, looking back to me.

I rub my eyes with one hand. God, I’m so tired.

“Sorry guys,” I mumble. “Lost track of the conversation.”

Johanssen laughs. Nobody even bothers to say it’s okay, we all know the drill.

“I just… I’m sorry if this was interrupting anyone, but…” I rub my face with both hands, feel the dry and tired skin. I want to say it, but I can’t seem to drag the words out of the pit in my chest.

Lewis puts her warm hand on my back, and it gives me a burst of strength.

“I wanted to talk about it.”

I feel the change in the room instantly. They all know what I mean when I say _it,_ with that heavy tone of voice. Everyone’s leaning forward in their seat, and I get the impression this is something they’ve been waiting for.

“What do you want to say?” Lewis asks quietly.

I sigh. I’m already exhausted, I can feel the weight dragging down my shoulders like lead and I haven’t even started. “I don’t know. Maybe you guys should ask questions first, I know you have some.”

They all look between each other, and are silent for a moment.

“I promise not to bite your heads off,” I smile slightly.

Johanssen laughs, then says “I’ll start with an easy one. What did you do all the time?”

“Besides listen to disco,” Martinez adds.

The memories of how it felt flash in my body. Staring out the window at the empty landing struts. I don’t know how many days, how many _weeks_ I sat staring out the window at that empty planet. So many weeks spent laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, so alone I was unable to move.

“I appreciate the effort, Johanssen, but there are no easy questions,” I laugh. “I would say ‘play a lot of Leather Godesses of Phobos,’ but, while it’s true, it’s not…” It’s not what I want to say, it’s not what you want to hear.

My next words come out very quietly. “There just wasn’t much to do. I tried to keep myself busy, reading books, checking on the Hab systems…” I take a deep breath. “It was hard to forget I was there alone.”

It wasn’t a direct answer, not really, but I couldn’t get the awful words out of my mouth.

Vogel speaks up next. “What is it like? Being on a planet, alone?” he asks quietly.

“Wow, you don’t shy away from the hard questions, do you?” I laugh hollowly.

Vogel shrugs. “I can withdraw it.”

I shake my head. “No, no, I expect I’ll be answering that question a lot, so I better practice now.”

I take another deep breath. It occurs to me that my entire life here on out is going to be full of hard questions.

The memories flash through me again. Searing emptiness in my chest. Staring at the empty landing struts. Imagining the entire planet, empty. The pain searing through my chest as I imagine the empty surface, emptiness crawling from my chest through my arms, up my throat and choking me.

I can feel my face cringe at the memories. “I tried really hard not to think about it. Because the moment I did…” I bring my hand up to my chest, rubbing at the spot there. “I’d freak out, you know?” I’m laughing, I don’t know why, some sort of defense mechanism. “Sometimes I’d see the horizon, and picture the whole planet, all red and homogeneous and fucking empty except for me -”

The feelings kick in the center of my chest, horrible fucking emptiness that never ever ends. The red emptiness is seared across my vision, and for a moment I’m feeling it all over again, the searing pain in my entire body, _I’m so fucking alone and no one even knows I’m alive and no one ever will._

Okay, that’s enough of that. I heave a rattling sigh. “It was bad.”

They wait a moment, either for me to catch my breath or to come up with questions, I don’t know.

Martinez pipes up. “Did you miss my jokes?”

I laugh, and it feels forced. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“So you did!” He triumphantly says.

I close my eyes and nod. “Yes, Martinez, I missed your jokes.” Saying it makes me smile.

He fist pumps, mouths ‘score.’ It makes me feel accepted, makes my chest feel a little warmer.

Something in me wants to talk about Mars. “If you must know, Martinez,” I say, “I begun to fill in for all of you.” I’d told them this before, yelled it at them on 790. “After a while I started talking to you guys like you were there, and I’d fill in for your answers.”

“I’m glad to know we were so easily replaced,” Lewis says dryly.

Another snarky response from the Ares III crew. “Did Dr. Shields tell you all to use humor to help me cope?”

Beck looks at the table guiltily. “I mean… yeah.”

I shrug. She was right to tell them that. “Lewis, I was lonely, all right?” I joke defensively.

My next words come out heavy whether or not I intend them to. “I was lonely.”

It’s silent for a moment.

“I was so lonely,” I mumble, rubbing my face again. “I was so lonely.”

Some days I’d wake up, still alone, so alone, stuck in the Hab. The feeling of it was carving out my chest again. Standing in the Hab, looking around, knowing there wasn’t anyone around the corner, so fucking empty and alone. There’s no one here, there never will be anyone here, I’m completely fucking alone, I’m never going to see another human again.

“A few days, I…” There’s just nothing inside me but this emptiness. “I just couldn’t stand being in the fucking Hab alone, so I put on the EVA suit and got in the Rover and just drove around, so I didn’t have to be in the empty Hab, try and forget about it.” I laugh hollowly. “It didn’t work. Turns out it’s fucking lonely outside, too.”

I can remember standing on the highest hill near the Hab. Looking out at the barren landscape. I’m alone in this EVA suit, and there is no one fucking out there. This entire rock is barren, dry, cold, and alone.

Eventually, I didn’t leave the Hab when I was lonely. I just grabbed pictures of the crew, laid on the dirt floor and looked at them, felt the pain hollow me from the inside out. The pain itself was enough to kill me. I thought I’d died on that floor, and the pain was my body rotting away with the potatoes.

“You okay?” Martinez asks, patting my shoulder. He and Lewis are being careful to maintain regular physical contact.

It’s working, the touch on my shoulder keeps me grounded, pulls me out of the hollowness.

“Yeah… no,” I say, rubbing my face again, feeling the pain in my chest. “Talking about this is hard.”

“You don’t have to,” Johanssen says warmly.

“No, no,” I cut her off. “I want to, I just… it’s hard to talk about without freaking out.” I can feel my core muscles aching from the strain, shoulders in pain and hunched over the table.

Lewis smiles. Beck smiles too, says “Well, you can freak out around us.”

I sigh, smile softly. “Figured you wouldn’t want to deal with it.” They already have to deal with me freaking out on a near-daily basis.

Johanssen speaks up. “Mark, you are not something we have to ‘deal with.’”

I sigh, again, rubbing the pain in my chest. The pain that I thought would kill me, think still might.

The memory of laying on the ground, staring at the pictures, is at the forefront of my mind. The pain is searing, just like it was on Mars. The memories are pressing in on me, heavy and unyielding. Laying on the dirt floor, already dead. It’s crawling under my skin, my arms hurt, I can’t get away.

I know this feeling, when the pain starts crawling under my skin. My breaths get shorter, and I stiffen in my seat.

“If I keep talking about this I’m going to have a flashback,” I pant. I don’t put my hands in my hair, not yet, taking deep breaths and trying to stay calm.

“Then stop, there’s no need for you to suffer,” Beck says.

Something in me compels me to dart out, grab Beck’s hand. “No, I…” I can’t get a handle on my words. If they know what’s happening in my chest, in my head, it won’t hurt so bad.

Beck holds my hand patiently.

“All the weird shit I do now, it all started as coping mechanisms,” I press. “Staring at walls for eight hours a day, freaking out and throwing things, I just… I know I’m not making any sense, but I can’t talk about it directly, you know?”

I take a pause, and they keep waiting patiently. Saints, the lot of them. They’re a lot better than me.

Horrid shame cuts at my core.

“Words like ‘lonely’ and ‘horrible’ don’t really cut it, but they’re the only words I can say.” I can certainly think of the words I’d like to use, but I can’t possibly say them. It would feel like tearing knives through my throat, and they would sound stupid out loud.

“You know, you don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” Martinez says plaintively. “Like, _ever_.”

I frown. “Yeah, I know, but… it’s me.” I gesture to myself. “Me. I want to, Rick.” I’m Mark Watney, and Mark Watney is the kind of guy who likes to share things, not keep them hidden.

I don’t want this to stay hidden inside me forever, like some fucked up prize.

“Are you afraid we’re going to judge you if you use more descriptive words?” Beck asks perceptively.

I hadn’t thought about it that way, but what he said rings true. Probably got tipped off by the psychiatry team or something.

I have to force my response through my teeth. “Yeah. Because… it’s really… stupid emotional shit, you know?”

“If anything is not stupid, it’s this,” Lewis responds.

“So I’ve heard,” I respond dryly. Anxiety is still pounding through me, but I know that if I don’t say what I want to say it’s not going to go away, and I’ll go to bed alone and suffering, _again_.

I have had enough of suffering alone.

I rub my face again, take a deep breath to ease the dreadful emptiness in my chest. “Being that alone, it, uh, isn’t just crying alone and eating chocolate, you know?” I laugh shakily.

The pain in my chest multiplies, as if it knows I’m talking about it. It’s searing, worse than it has in a long time, and I bring my hand up to my chest. “It hurts, physically. And at first it was just my chest hurting every day, yeah yeah, we’ve all heard of heartbreak. But the longer I was there the more it hurt.”

“Some days, I’d just wake up in so much pain that, uh… and I know how this sounds, but…” my throat is threatening to tear again, water pooling at the corner of my eyes. The pain in my chest is hurting worse with every word, but with every word it feels more crisp, more clean.

“I’d be in so much pain that I could barely walk. I was already starving to death, but it was so bad I could barely bring myself to eat. All I could do was lay in bed. It hurt so badly, I thought my body would give up.” I’m hiding my face now from them. “God, I wished it would just give up.” My voice cracks. “But it never did.”

Each word pulls the pain out of me, searing on it’s way up, turning into hot tears down my face. The words feel like poison, burning on it’s way up but finally being pulled out of me.

Martinez hand has come to rest on my back, and it’s warm, but it still doesn’t do much against the horrible emptiness that’s opened up and swallowed me whole again. “I’m so sorry, Mark,” he says. “I wish there was something we could have done.”

“Pathfinder helped a lot,” I say thickly. “Talking to you guys, even if NASA would only let us chit chat.”

“I was pretty pissed about that,” Beck admits. “They said they wanted to keep you focused on the mission.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s the shit they sold me, too. It didn’t work.” My voice cracks again. “It just made me feel more alone.”

“That one doesn’t take a genius,” Martinez says. “You’re a man trapped on a planet alone, not a fucking robot.”

 _You’re a man trapped on a planet alone_. The words echo in my ears. Everything inside me feels dead.

“I thought I was just another probe,” I say hollowly. I can feel the emptiness again as clearly as the day it happened. “That they didn’t give a shit about me, or if I was in pain, they just wanted their NASA probe kept functional.”

My sense of self worth was gone, died with Mark Watney on Sol 6. The only thing I felt was the endless emptiness in my chest, staggering and searing and unending. I am nothing but a piece of equipment, accidentally left behind.

“And when Iris failed, it was… really bad. I know you guys have seen the chat logs. But after that, it got a little better, because they let me talk to you guys, started treating me like a human. And” My voice breaks again, “of-fucking-course I break Pathfinder ten seconds later.”

“We have seen the chat logs,” Beck admits. I knew they’d seen it anyways, but something hard and cold settles in my chest at the confirmation.

“What… what did you do?” Johanssen asks. “When Iris failed?”

The memories rush up. _Iris failed_ , the words blinking on the screen in Lucidia Console font, white against the black computer screen. Everything closing down, suddenly it’s just me and this blinking rover screen and the morphine in the med kit.

 _Iris failed._ I dig my nails into my palm.

“It was one of the worst days of my life” I say. “I won’t want to talk about it for a long time.”

Beck squeezes my hand, as if to say ‘it’s all right.’

“What did you do when you got pathfinder working?” Lewis asks, trying to turn the conversation to something more positive.

There’s not a lot that’s positive in a conversation about Mars, but I allow her to distract us anyways.

That memory does make me feel a little better. “Cried like a big baby,” I laugh through my tears. “Went inside, did the ugly cry, and listened to Mr. Blue Sky on repeat. Before I went to Mars I thought I was some sort of hardass who never cried, but apparently not.”

“I could have told you that, Watney,” Johanssen says skeptically. “You almost have as many feelings as Chris.”

“I got abandoned on a planet! I’m allowed to have feelings!” I defend.

“No, before that,” she says. “Even before that you had a lot of feelings.”

Lewis snorts. “Men. You all seem to think it’s bad to have feelings.”

“I don’t think it’s bad,” Beck says.

“You’re an anomaly,” Johanssen supplies.

The table falls silent again. My chest still hurts, but the pain is new, and instead of horrid emptiness I just feel sore and exhausted. Like Mars inside me is an infection, and with each word more of it is cleared away.

Oh, this one conversation wasn’t enough to make it go away, wasn’t even enough to make one tenth of it go away. But it was enough for tonight.

“Well, I got through that whole conversation without freaking out once,” I say tiredly, closing the conversation. “That’s a miracle.”

Beck looks at me witheringly, and his facial expression says ‘Mark stop being so hard on yourself.’

We chit chat, finish up, and go to our separate bunk rooms.

I’m laying down, but I’m not sleeping. Martinez is laying down beside me, and like usual he’s already fallen asleep.

I’m glad I talked today. My heart feels like a broken bone. Setting it hurts, hurts worse than anything I’ve ever experienced in my life, but in the aftermath I feel better. But it’s a bad metaphor, because I know it’s going to need set again, and again, over and over for the rest of my life.

I turn my head to look at Martinez, sleeping on the floor next to me. They are willing to help me set the broken bone, over and over again with me. _They are here for me._

That night, I don’t have any nightmares.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 843

It's been over three months since I was rescued but most days I still feel utterly, inescapably alone.

The family time meetings have continued, yielding good results for everyone but me. They're working through problems, connecting with one another, working through their guilt for leaving me behind…

I'm just here, wondering who I am after all of this.

Some days are good days, where I come downstairs and joke with the crew and dance to music with them and generally harass them. Some days are bad, and I can barely stay connected with reality, let alone make conversation.

Today is a bad day.

“Mark?” Beck’s asked from across my lab.

I try, but I can't quite get my throat to respond. My eyes are still glued to the window, the inky blackness of space staring back at me. It’s captured me, and I can’t tear my eyes away. My chest feels empty like the darkness outside.

Today is a really bad day.

“I'll ask you later,” he says understandingly.

“Wait,” I hear myself say, voice rough, the words being dragged out of me.

He looks up. “Yeah?”

My hands clench. “Please,” I say, voice dry. I’m not sure what it is I’m asking for. I’m confused, I’m tired, I just want this pain to stop.

Beck takes the stool next to where I'm sitting, and my heart unwinds a little.

“What's up?” Beck asks, giving me his full attention.

My hands fist at the sides of my lab coat, which I always wear in the lab these days. Makes me feel like Dr. Watney again, if just for a moment. But I don't feel like Dr. Watney right now, trapped inside myself.

“Mark?” He asks, more quietly this time.

“I just… Didn't want to be alone,” I murmur, eyes fixed on the vastness of space.

Beck looks out at space with me. Then, he looks back at me. “What's going on?” He asks quietly.

My hands are still fisted, my nails are digging into my palms so that I don't gasp with how painful the emptiness is in my chest. It always gets worse when people pay attention.

“Just, uh… Having a bad day.”

Beck continues to look at me, waiting for me to continue.

“My stupid heart doesn't always realize I'm not on Mars anymore.” I'm rubbing my chest now, and while I've never really explained why I do that, I know that by now Beck knows why.

Beck puts his hand on my shoulder, and I lean into the contact.

Opening up historically goes badly. I’ve only done so when I’m losing my temper and yelling at them, or in the middle of a flashback, or when I’m about to throw myself out an airlock. Then, of course, doing so makes me dissociate so badly I can’t claw my way back for the rest of the day.

But right now, Beck’s hand is so warm on my shoulder. I know opening up historically goes badly for me, but his hand is so warm, I want this.

“Give it time,” Beck says, smiling warmly. “Your stupid heart will catch up.”

I shake my head. “No, it's not just that. It's…” I grab my left pointer finger with my right hand, where the morphine needle pricked me Sol 6, something that has become a habit. “I was down there, and you were all up here, you know? Together.”

I'm looking down at my hands, out at space, anywhere but Beck. “And I was there… alone.” My voice cracks on the last word. I don’t want to explain myself anymore, I’m praying Beck just _gets_ what I’m trying to say without having to say any more.

Thank God, he understands. His eyes immediately turn sad, the heat leeching out of the air.

“We missed you every day,” Beck said emptily. “Every single day, someone would think of something you would find funny, or need your help with something. Every time you weren't there hurt. We stared at your empty seat in the rec room, every day.”

It feels like a rushing waterfall is finally filling the cavern inside of me, and I can feel tears pricking at the corner of my eyes. “Really?” I mumble, praying he’ll continue talking.

Beck raises his eyebrows. “Really? Mark, didn't you know?”

I look to the side, away from him. My hand is on my chest again, rubbing. “You left me on Mars,” I offer, a pitiful explanation. _How can that be true if you left me on Mars?_ My eyes are squeezed shut right now but tears are leaking out of them anyways.

Beck stands up out of the stool, reaches across and pulls me into a hug, one so tight I feel like all the breath is being pressed out of me as he squeezes for all he's worth. 

“Mark, we can't ever make up for that. We hate ourselves for it, all of us, every single day. I don't think we are ever going to stop," he says, offering a dry laugh.

He lets go of me, but keeps his hands on my shoulders, looking into my now decidedly watery eyes. “You are needed, Mark, and not just by us. There's a world full of people waiting for you to get home.”

I can't look him in the eyes, I can't believe what he's saying, although my ears are drinking it in like its the last time I'm ever going to hear human speech.

Beck sits back down, and looks out the window with me.

I can’t bring myself to say anything more, and I’m not even sure what I would say.

But right now, for the moment, I feel a little less alone.

—

Rick Martinez  
Mission Day 845

Martinez is the one sitting with Watney in the lab today, and he's having one of those days where he mutters to himself, pacing around the lab as he hops from plant to plant, looking agitated. 

Martinez wants to ask him what's wrong, but knows that in the best case scenario he’ll just startle and confuse him, and in the worst case scenario, he’ll bitch about how ‘he made it 549 sols alone without you hovering like a god damn helicopter.’ 

The response Martinez always holds back is ‘have you seen yourself lately, dude? I wouldn't call this ‘made it.’’

As it is, though, Martinez sits silently in the room with him. Almost a hundred days on this ship and Watney still had a tendency to forget they were there.

Like today. 

“God damnit!” Watney shouts, out of nowhere, slamming his hand down on one of the aluminum tables and making an earsplitting noise.

“Watney, Jesus!” Martinez yells back, startled. “What's got up your ass?”

Watney looks up, panting, wide eyed, nursing his hand, and Martinez thinks he may have forgotten where he was again. “Martinez! Jesus.”

”That's what I said,” Martinez replied, dryly. ”You first.”

Watney runs a hand through his hair, looking around the lab. “I, uh, was doing math in my head, and the numbers didn't work out…” He's still looking around the lab, confused, vaguely upset.

It clicked almost instantly for Martinez. If the numbers don't work out, Watney dies.

“Hey,” he says, getting up and wheeling around the table. He puts a hand gently on Watney’s shoulder. “You're on the Hermes, with us. It's okay.”

Watney looks over his shoulder at him, still running a shaky hand through his hair. “Yeah, I know,” he says dryly.

“I know you know,” Martinez says, exasperated. “I'm just…” He shrugs in Watneys’ direction, walking back to his seat. “I don't even know why I try,” he says, laughing.

It isn't until a moment later that Martinez looks up to see Watney determinedly staring at the wall, face hard.

Watney had been back over a hundred days, and in that hundred days, Martinez and the crew had learned that when Watney was staring hard at nothing, he was about ten seconds away from some sort of breakdown.

“Hey, hey,” he said, getting up again and wheeling in front of him, putting a hand on his shoulder again to reestablish contact. Martinez wracks his brain, tries to figure out what he did wrong, but thinks that maybe it was just going to be one of those days no matter what anyone did. “I'm here. Talk to me.”

Watney doesn't, instead looks down and mumbles something clearly designed to get Martinez to go away. It isn't convincing.

Martinez decides ‘fuck it, Beck said he needs physical contact,’ and pulls Watney into a hug. The moment he feels the shaky breath from him, feels the hard contact of Watney gripping fistfuls of his sweatshirt, he knows it was the right thing to do.

“Hard day?” Martinez asks. They all know by now, some days are harder than others.

Watney draws a shaky breath. “Yeah.”

“Want me to call Johanssen?” They also all knew by now that the more people around, the easier it was for him.

“No, Rick -”

Martinez was already standing in the door. “Johanssen?!” He yelled.

“What??” She yelled from several rooms over.

“We've decided to let you join our club!” He yells back. “Cool kids only”

Watney is standing in the center lab, wringing his hands together.

Somehow Johanssen knows that that means Watney needs backup, because she's in the lab with her laptop in an instant.

The first thing she does when she gets in the room is hug Watney.

“You doing all right?” She asks quietly in his ear.

His response is barely audible. “No.”

She lets go after a long moment, rubbing his back, then sitting down at the table with Martinez.

“So, still doing nothing again today?” Johanssen asks Martinez, getting a conversation going for Watney.

“At least my work is real,” Martinez snarks. “Your work is a bunch of electrical signals.” Johanssen and Martinez fall into an easy conversation.

Watney sits down by them, opening his laptop, but barely even pretends to work. He's rubbing his face with his hands, just listening to the sounds of their voices.

Johanssen and Martinez both notice, but don't comment on, the way his eyes drift in and out of focus staring at the opposite wall. And if Martinez has to grab his hand once or twice to ground him in the here and now, well, nobody needs to mention it.

—

Crew  
Mission Day 847

It’s Family Time again, and the crew is gathered around the table talking.

“I can barely sleep,” Johanssen says, rubbing her hands together. “Every time I get tired I freak out, because what if the reactor does something unexpected and the reactor expert is asleep and doesn’t notice? I know I’m being ridiculous, but it keeps me just anxious enough to be unable to sleep.” The rings under Johanssen’s eyes drove home her point.

“Sleep with me in the bunk again,” Beck says quietly. “If that will help.”

Lewis waves her hand, as if to say ‘I’ll allow it.’

Johanssen nods. “I think it would.”

“I can’t wait to sleep in a bed next to Marissa,” Martinez says, head sinking into his arms. “I’m never leaving her again.”

Vogel smiles. “You don’t mean that.” The entire crew knew that despite all that had happened, Martinez wanted to return to space.

Martinez shrugs tiredly. “No, but I wish I did.”

Vogel nods tiredly. “I’m actually never leaving Helena again,” he says heavily.

“What about visits?” Martinez exclaims.

Vogel smiles warmly. “I can bring the family for that.”

“Ares 3 family party, our house,” Beck says, gesturing to all of them. “As soon as we’re all out of the hospital.”

They all smile, looking down at the table, sweating through their jumpsuits in the heat.

Watney’s silent, looking down at the table, and the crew can’t deny the haunted look in his eyes. His hard gaze is fixed on the table.

“I can’t believe you lived like this for years,” Johanssen mumbles, looking at Watney.

He doesn’t say anything, just blinks slowly as his gaze slides down. They’re not sure if he heard her or not.

“It’ll be over soon,” she says, grabbing his hand. “It’ll be over soon.”

He swallows roughly, nods, but doesn’t say anything else. They look at him staring hard at the table, and wish there was more they could do.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 848

I’m really finding it relaxing, taking care of these tiny ferns. Ferns are some of my favorite plants. They’re hardy, survive in all sorts of harsh environments, and are a really pleasing shade of light green.

Most of the scientific work involving these ferns is impossible to conduct, because we don’t have any martian soil, but I’m still conducting experiments to try and make this trip worth it. We were supposed to conduct several generations of 0g tests on the way here, and I’ve just come up with ways to lengthen those experiments for the trip home.

“Are you talking to me?” Martinez asks.

“What?” I say, wheeling around to face him.

“You’re like, talking about your experiments at full volume,” Martinez said. “Are you talking to yourself?”

Jesus Christ, I hadn’t even noticed. “Uh, yeah. How long have I been doing that?”

“Most of the day,” he said mildly. “You’ve been doing it for a while. Like, this entire trip. The others warned me, told me not to give you shit about it.” He looked a little irritated. “I know you guys think I have twelve year old humor, but even I know not to mock you for shit you picked up on Mars.”

I’m still standing there, looking at him, flushed.

I’m not embarrassed about talking to myself; I couldn’t give less of a shit about what Rick thinks about that. I’m embarrassed because there’s only one reason I would have developed a habit of talking to myself in great detail, at full volume.

Dr. Shields has a theory about this; said that people in solitary confinement developed relationships with objects in the absence of people to form relationships with. So basically, I talked to that camera like it was a real person because I was so profoundly and utterly alone that I had to form friendships with inanimate objects or I would lose my grip. I know that we all know I’ve lost my grip, but I don’t like advertising that.

Luckily, though, Martinez doesn’t appear to be thinking too much about it. He’s already shrugged, getting back to whatever he’s doing sitting at the lab table.

For a moment, I wish he wasn’t here. I feel like a carnival attraction. ‘Come one, come all, see Crazy Mark Watney! Before Mars, a happy and sociable human being, now crazy and confused, thanks to Mars!’ Everyone spends all day gossiping about me, what I must feel like, how it must have felt to go through it, as if it were some sort of intriguing scientific experiment.

I wish I could trade; they could know what it feels like, and I can be the healthy stable person wondering. But no. I’m the person that Mars fucked up, and they’re the ones wondering how it feels.

“It’s not like that,” Martinez said.

What? Was I fucking talking out loud again?

I make sure to keep my lips closed when having that thought.

“If you’re gonna say shit out loud, I’m gonna respond,” Martinez said. “They’ve taken the policy of ignoring it, but you’re not gonna learn to keep thoughts inside your head if we just humor you.”

I groan. “What did I say?”

“Just some shit about how we’re on the outside and you’re the one living it,” Martinez said. “But it’s not like that. I mean, it is on some level, because we’re curious. But everyone on this ship wants to help you more than we want to satisfy our morbid curiosity.”

“I know, I know,” I respond. “It just sucks, feeling singled out.”

“Before, you did everything you could to single yourself out,” Martinez laughed. “Always trying to get noticed.”

“That's not really true,” I find myself saying. “I mean… I'm a botanist, not a rock star. I joked around a lot, but I never really wanted to be special. I just wanted people to like me.”

“And now?” Martinez asked me.

“I don't know,” I whined, puttering around in my lab. I know exactly what it is that I want, but I don’t say it. “To be left alone,” is what I say instead.

Martinez scoffs, clearly thinking that’s a gigantic fucking lie, but honoring the request anyways.

He’s right, it’s a gigantic fucking lie. _How are you ever gonna get what you want if you don’t tell them, Mark?_

But you did tell them, didn’t you? You practically screamed it at their faces while holding a gun to your head. If Martinez lets it go now, well, he knows exactly what the score is.

The observation feels like a million pounds on my shoulders. He knows the score, and he decided to let it go anyways. I stagger into a lab chair, the weight dragging me down. My head turns to the window, to the endless blackness of space. It’s just as empty as my chest feels, vast and painful and fucking empty. Martinez knows the score and he didn’t follow up anyways.

It makes sense, I’m completely fucking needy. They need a break sometimes from dealing with my bullshit. The realization closes down something in me, and I can feel the shutters in my heart closing, can feel the heat leech out of my chest. The only thing left when it’s gone is a rock hard coldness, jagged and unyielding, and it reminds me of Mars.

—

Mark Watney  
Sleeping

[16:25] JPL: The launch failed.

The message is short. No sugarcoating. It failed.

The voice in my head reverberates. _You hear that Watney? You’re going to die here after all._

My eyes were glued to the rover screen. This fucking empty feeling is all I have left. I’m dead, dead all over again. I’ve let myself hope and try and fight, but in the end it all came down to the same fucking thing.

Living four years on this god forsaken rock was already not an inspiring proposition, so the temptation to change my air composition to pure nitrogen right here and end this was overwhelming. Before I can really process the fact that I’m going to die, before I suffer anymore, like slamming a laptop shut in anger.

But I’m not angry. I’m not anything. There’s just nothing left.

It’s Sol 6 all over again. I’m already dead. Except now, I’ve already suffered. I’m already starving, and my back hurts every sol before I’ve even done any work, and I haven’t talked to another living human in hundreds of days. I’m talking to myself, out loud, all the time, just to hear the sound of some sort of human voice. This constant terror has become just another horrible part of my life.

Now it’s all my life has left.

According to my food supply, I can last a few more hundred days if I so choose. But I don’t want a few more hundred sols in the middle of the martian desert. Sol 6, I chose a couple hundred more days in the fucking martian desert. Look where it got me.

I don’t want to fight anymore. I want to rest.

I’m staring at that blinking screen. It’s begging for a response.

Something about it being the very end makes me throw away all of my concern. Yes, this is all in the public domain. Millions of people watch my every word. But I’m not going to see a single one of those million people, ever again. They are as imaginary to me as the face of my mom, which is already horrifyingly fading from my memory.

[16:30] WATNEY: So it’s the end of the line.

I hit return, watch the message fly away.

—

[16:42] JPL: Not yet. We’ll figure something else out. We’re not the only country with a booster; we’ll get one from someone else, we’ll figure something out. We’re not giving up on you, Mark. Everyone at NASA is still fighting for you.

I laughed, and cried, when the reply came in to me.

“Yeah right, Venkat,” I said, tears streaming out of my eyes. “There’s no fucking time, and you know it.” There’s just not enough time to build a booster, or negotiate for one; those things take years. No government is going to speed this shit up to save one man; they can’t get their hands out of their asses long enough to save political prisoners, let alone save someone on Mars.

But none of that is really the issue.

I just don’t want to fight anymore.

Waiting until that probe got here would be hundreds more days of fighting, and then there would be hundreds more days of waiting for Ares IV, and then driving to Schiaparelli without dying…

[16:45] I’m so tired. I don’t want to fight anymore. I just want it to be over.

I don’t sign it with Venkat’s name, because it isn’t just Venkat I’m talking to anymore.

—

Rick Martinez  
Mission Day 849

Martinez is stirred by the sound of someone in pain.

He rolls over, barely awake, to see Watney’s face constricted, loud protesting noises coming out of his mouth. He isn’t speaking clearly, but he can pick out the words “so tired” and “can’t do this.”

It’s still so perverse to see pain on the face of a man who used to be so happy.

“Watney, wake up,” Martinez said, shaking him. He still hadn’t forgotten about being thrown out of the bunk room, but Rick didn’t care whether Watney would be mad or not. He wanted him out of the nightmare, and he could bitch about it later.

His shaking had little effect, Watney just turning in his blankets and curling inward. “I just want it to end,” he said, eyes squeezed shut.

Martinez sat up, now doubling down his efforts to wake him. “Mark! Wake up!” He said as loudly as he could risk, shaking Watney.

Watney’s eyes flew open, looking right at Martinez.

“I just want it to be _over_.”

The pain in his gaze was overwhelming, and for a second Martinez felt it as his own, thundering through his heart.

“Mark?” He said uncertainly, not knowing if he was awake or asleep.

Watney’s face changed from desperation, to confusion, blinking, and finally to understanding. He then flopped down on the cot, immediately rolling away.

“You okay?” Martinez asked.

“Fine,” was Watney’s thick reply.

Martinez’s response was chastising. “Mark.”

“Fine, I’m not fine,” he said, from where he was rolled over.

Martinez frowned, and put his hand on Watney’s shoulder again. He felt how tense he was, every muscle knotted underneath his hand.

“It was bad,” Martinez guessed.

“It was bad,” Watney confirmed, voice quiet. “It was a memory. Those are always the worst.”

Martinez pushed on his shoulder, and Watney rolled over flat on his back compliantly. Martinez fell back on his own back, and they both looked at the ceiling of the gym.

“Tell me about it.”

Watney swallowed, hard. “I can’t.”

Martinez looked over, and it was then that he could see Watney was shaking under his sheets. “Why?”

‘’Cause I’ll have a fucking breakdown if I do,” is his rough response.

“You don’t have to hide from me,” Martinez whispers.

Watney shakes his head. “It’s not that. I hate having fucking breakdowns. They’re painful, _physically_ painful.” His voice is wound tight.

“Oh,” Martinez said. “I didn’t… I didn’t realize.”

Watney shrugged. “How could you have known,” he says tiredly. He rolled back over onto his side, still shaking. “I just want to fall asleep and forget about it.”

The strain in his voice was so audible that Martinez couldn’t help but roll over and give him the peace he wanted.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 851

Today is a good day. Beck, Martinez and I are sitting in the rec room, watching a movie on a laptop together, but we’re not really paying attention. We’ve devolved into just wasting time, chattering loudly with each other.

“I want to move in with her, and we have been talking like it’s going to happen, but we haven’t _really_ talked about it,” Beck is saying. “We both gave up our apartments when we left for the trip. I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“Beck, the big question is, does she love you? ‘cause if she doesn’t love you, this is all a moo point,” I say to him.

“A moo point?” Beck responds.

Martinez sniggers from my side.

I grin. “You know, like a cow’s opinion. it doesn’t matter. it’s moo.”

Beck turns around in his seat to where Martinez is snickering in the corner. “Have I been living with him too long, or did all that just make sense?”

“He has a point,” Martinez said. “Have you guys said the three words yet?”

Beck shrugs. “I have.”

I narrow my eyes. “You have?”

“Yeah.”

We both look at him expectantly.

“I think she does, all right?” He defends. “She’s just reserved.”

“She can cry her way up and down the ship and fall asleep publicly in my arms, but she can’t say she loves you,” I say. “She’s weird.”

Beck’s next sentence is worried. “Do you think she doesn’t?”

“No, man, she definitely does,” I say. “Remember that big NASA party when we left? She couldn’t take her eyes off of you either.”

“Nobody could take their eyes off of her,” Martinez remembered. He was right, she was the belle of the ball that night.

And she’d chosen Chris Beck, so he needed to stop worrying.

“It doesn’t matter if she says it or not,” I say. “Because it’s true. You both have each other, and that’s what matters.”

I hear my own voice in my ears, and it sounds heavy. I suppose it would; I am the world’s leading authority on loneliness.

Beck must think I have some authority on the matter, too, because he nods heavily and accepts my response.

—

Rick Martinez  
Mission Day 853

When Rick Martinez agreed to sleep in the gym with Watney, he was glad of the opportunity. He thought that the forced company would help Watney open up about the nightmares he’d been having, and he relished the chance just to hang out with his friend again.

Thus far, it had worked out as anticipated. When Watney stirred from nightmares, instant contact with Martinez helped him calm down and go back to sleep before he even fully woke up. Martinez was able to hang out with Watney, play cards with him, and together they annoyed everyone on the ship.

Maybe it was just the close quarters, but he was really rethinking that position.

“Martinez?” Watney’s voice cut into Martinez’s ears.

“What is it, Watney?” Martinez responded sleepily.

Watney was laying flat on his back, staring at the ceiling. “Do you think pigeons have feelings?”

When Watney was having a good day, he was very talkative. Beck’s theory was that he was overcompensating for his isolation, and wanted to be in constant social connection with others.

Martinez didn’t care about what Beck’s theory. It’s 1:47, and Martinez cares about sleep.

“I’m going to give you one more chance to shut the fuck up,” Martinez groans, rolling over where Watney’s chatter might not be able to reach him.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 853

“Sorry man,” I say, looking over at Martinez. It was something that was on my mind all the time on Mars; do animals have feelings? I always thought pigeons didn’t really have feelings, because creatures with feelings wouldn’t do half the dumb things that creatures with feelings do.

I thought Martinez was laying awake, too, but I guess not.

I roll over, and get up out of the bed. I want to keep chattering, so I might as well remove myself from the company of someone who doesn’t want to hear it. I don’t really want to be out of the warm bed, but there’s too much nervous energy in my body to just lay somewhere quietly.

I don’t wake Martinez as I get up, because it’s not like I’m _suffering_ suffering and it’s not like I’m about to kill myself.

After wandering around, I end up in my lab. It seems like as good a place as any.

I look over my ferns, touching one of the leaves gently. I’ve thrown them around the ship a couple times now, but none of them really came out of their little compostable containers. Thank goodness.

I feel like animal sentience is something people have studied before. I’d love to just _Google_ it, but out here in the middle of fucking nowhere all I can do is stare at my little ferns and wonder whether or not they do. We’re almost home and it’s still too far away for anything but text messages.

In the past I read gorillas and great apes can use sign language, but some guy I went to school with went for behavioral science and said that their sign language didn’t constitute actual human language because they were learned responses, not organically-generated linguistics or whatever…

—

Rick Martinez  
Mission Day 853

It turns out that even without Watney nearby, Martinez wasn’t going to get much sleep tonight. Watney’s late-night chattering was piercing even into his sleep, and later into the night Martinez rolled over.

It was then that he noticed Watney’s incessant chattering had stopped. In fact, he couldn’t hear the noise of Watney sleeping either, usually hitched breathing or moving under the blankets.

Martinez cracked his eyes open, and Watney’s not in his bed at all.

The time is visible on the wall. 2:38.

 _Fuck_ , Martinez thought, sitting up like a bolt. He threw himself out of bed, stumbling into the hallway. Once in the hallway, he could immediately hear Watney.

“…That’s kind of sad that you can’t hear me, you know?…” Watney sounded strung out, a little bit hysterical.

 _Okay, just awake talking to plants, not killing himself_ , Martinez thought to himself, panting. _Okay_.

Just because Watney wasn’t in immediate danger didn’t mean he didn’t need help, though. He sounded a bit strung out, the way he was talking.

 _It’s not as if I’m going to go back to bed after that little scare_ , Martinez thought to himself, floating down towards Watney’s lab. _Might as well see what’s up._

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 853

It’s kind of sad you can’t hear me, you know? Plants are the only real company I’ve had for a long time now, and you’re living, and I know you benefit from my loving care, but you can’t hear the sound of my voice and acknowledge that I’m alive with you. To you, I’m just another thing in your environment, no different from the rocks or the weather. I like to imagine you can feel the heat of my body, though, and you know I’m alive too.

“Watney?” Martinez’s voice startles the shit out of me, and I stumble backwards into a lab table like I haven’t in a while. It makes a loud clanging noise, and it probably will wake half the crew.

Martinez is just staring at me. “You need sleep, Watney.”

My eyes are burning from exhaustion, it’s true, but I don’t want to slow down, don’t want to lay in that cot in the gym. The second my head hits the pillow, everything I’m feeling is going to break through to the surface, and I’m going to lay down, and it’s going to hurt so badly I’ll never get up again.

“You’re talking to houseplants, man. Go to sleep.”

“I can’t,” I bite out.

“Nightmares?”

I say nothing. Sure, lets go with that. I mean, nightmares _are_ among the reason I dread going to sleep every night.

He’s rubbing his face now. “Anything I can do to help?”

You can stay up with me, so I’m talking to you instead of houseplants. I can tell him all about how I talked to the potatoes, and the camera, and talked and talked and talked until my throat was hoarse but couldn’t stop because when I stopped nobody was going to reply and it was going to be silent and _harsh_ and _dead_.

But I can’t ask him to stay up with me, so I just don’t say anything.

He’s walking toward me, and my heart is jumping up into my throat. I’m becoming aware of the fact that there is too much adrenaline in my veins for this time of night. I can feel my fine shaking through my lab coat.

“Mark?” Martinez asks quietly, grabbing my shoulder.

“I spoke to the potatoes,” I say, the words jumping from my throat, and this time there’s someone to _hear_ them and there’s someone to _reply_. “I spoke to them a lot. Sometimes I would just want to talk to someone, and I’d keep talking, and talking -” My voice is quiet, but I’m aware of how frantic it is. “-and I had to, because I knew that once I was done talking nobody would reply, you know? Sometimes I’d talk and talk until my voice was hoarse but I couldn’t stop because if I stopped it was going to be quiet again -”

I take a shaky breath. Martinez is bringing his other hand up to my other shoulder. “-And I just couldn’t take it, couldn’t take it being so quiet because it’s _so_ quiet on Mars, nothing but the machines, every day, the same exact thing, but when I turned the Hab off -” I grab Martinez’s shoulders now, look in his eyes, as if I can somehow make him see what I saw. “Martinez, it was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. It scared me.”

“Mark! Hey,” Martinez says, shaking me a little. “It’s okay now. You’re talking to me, and I talk back, see? Not silent.”

I nod roughly, a little out of breath. I’ve been speaking frantically to potted plants for a while now, not having stopped to take a breath. My heart is pounding in my chest like I’ve been sprinting.

“I got myself a bit wound up,” I pant. I just noticed how badly my knees are hurting, probably from standing over potted plants for hours talking at them.

Martinez laughed, maneuvering me into a chair. “I can see that.”

“It’s just really quiet on the Hermes too, you know?” I offer quietly, still frantic. “Even quieter than the Hab. The machines are so quiet. Everything is insulated. I can’t hear anyone.”

Martinez pulls me into a hug, and my shaking immediately lessens. “I’m right here now, all right?” He lets go of me. “Do you just want me to talk about something?” he asks. I know what he’s offering, offering to just talk to me and let me listen, and the fact that he’s offering me that makes my chest warm. But it’s not what I want.

“No,” I say. “No, I want to talk to you, I want to talk to a human whose going to remember what I say, instead of all my words going into the endless vacuum and never heard, as if they were never spoken in the first place. You know, ‘if a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?’” I’m not sure what I intended, but that sentence comes out heavy. “Because I don’t think it does. I certainly didn’t. I tried to make a sound but nobody heard, and the moment it reached the walls of the Hab the vibrations were lost to the vacuum. The sound literally disappeared, Rick.”

Martinez looks a little upset right now, perhaps confused, and I have a moment of pity for the situation he’s found himself in.

“Isn’t what you expected to be doing tonight, probably,” I laugh, “Listening to a crazy person rant and rave about philosophical thought experiments.”

Martinez laughs freely, and the fact that he does so makes me feel a lot better. “It’s more interesting than what usually happens.”

“What usually happens?” I ask.

Martinez shrugs. “You wake up yelling, and you wake me up. But you don’t wake up all the way, right? So I just sort of…” he has a limp gesture to go with this, flopping his hand against my shoulder. “Flop my arm on your shoulder, and mumble something, and you usually calm down after that.”

“Well…” I trail off. I thought the better sleep had been merely from the company. It disturbed me that I woke him up like that, that frequently. “The point here is that the Hab and the Hermes are really quiet and I don’t like it.”

“Is this why you were trying to talk to me about pigeons earlier?” he asks, rubbing his eyes.

I shrugged. “Mars doesn’t have Google. I wondered a lot about random stuff. Like if pigeons and other animals have human sentience.”

“We don’t have Google, either, and I haven’t wondered about animal sentience.”

“You have other people,” is my slightly snippy response. “To talk to. I was wondering if it would be better if Buzz were there, and I just got bored and started wondering about animals, all right?”

Martinez put his hands up. “I’m not judging you, dude.”

“Good. ‘Cause, you know, that’s what I did for like the first eight months. I just thought about lots of inconsequential stuff. Had a bunch of theories on things, like why Lewis loves disco so much and why Beck has so many feelings and why it took a cold war to get America to send people to space again. Remember our little fifteen-day isolation or whatever from the psych evaluation?” I snicker. “I thought Johanssen falling asleep was funny. And you…” I pull a face. “God, Martinez, fifteen year old humor, even then?”

“I didn’t actually do that!” Martinez exclaimed. “They had cameras pointed on us!”

“I know that, but the poor people of earth don’t have access to the camera feed,” I say. “When they look through those logs they’re just going to see your childish humor. And think you spent fifteen days whacking it.”

Martinez shrugged, and leaned back, as if he were proud of himself.

“My answer was about what, Aquaman and whales, right? I’d never really thought about aquaman too much because he wasn’t featured in the movies. And I thought about all this stuff, because this time it was a lot longer than fifteen days.” Something in me wants to keep going.

“But it wasn’t enough to just think to myself any more, so I started talking out loud about how the Hab was, about how the plans were going. Ended up talking to the potatoes because they were the only other living things. And studies show that plants have a rudimentary sense of hearing, so it’s entirely possible that the potatoes knew when the other life with them was talking. So I talked to them. And I just kept talking and talking.”

“And that’s how I ended up pretending you guys were there. I just kept talking. I kept talking to the potatoes and dictating to the cameras. I started talking to the cameras, and the cameras didn’t know any science, so I’d pretend to ask you guys questions. It started as a joke, like I’d pretend to ask you about botany, and you’d always give the wrong answer.” Here, I chuckle.

“But it just stuck. And then for weeks, I spoke to you guys. Sometimes I provided your answers, like -” My voice takes on a mocking tone, “”Piloting the ship is important!” or “Das core samples is a bad naming convention.” But sometimes I didn’t wait for the answers, and sometimes I left an empty space where you would have answered.”

I’m winding my hands together, still talking at speed, but my voice is getting quieter. Martinez is still patiently looking at me, and he’s leaned in with his warm hand on my shoulder.

“I wasn’t talking, the first time I heard someone else in the room. But it started happening in the spaces between my answers, so I just kept talking, and I left spaces for you to answer, and I’d hear a coffee cup get set down, or the sounds of a human breathing, or a human laughing quietly to themselves far away. The first few times I went into the room to look for you guys, but of course you weren’t there, so I learned to stand just near the doorway when having my conversation, as if you were just slightly out of eyesight.”

I’m looking at my hands now, and whispering, and I’m praying to God Martinez does something, anything, puts his hand on my shoulder or hugs me or tells me it’s all right.

“I didn’t really think about it until after I was in the rover for a few days, but I stopped hearing you guys. I stopped having potatoes to talk to, and then I stopped having you in the other room to talk to. I just stopped talking.”

I stop, put my head in my hands, rub my face tiredly. “It got really bad after that.”

There’s a moment where we’re both silent.

“Do you want to talk about that?” Martinez asks.

“No. God no.” I rub my face again. “It was really bad. No.” I take a deep sigh. “The point is, sometimes I just feel like I have to talk to someone, sometimes, because if I’m in the quiet for even a second more I won’t be able to take it anymore.”

And it all comes back around, doesn’t it? Even when I don’t think it’s about being suicidal I unpack my feelings for more than a split second and I find out it’s always about being suicidal.

“I’ll take it more seriously the next time you ask me about flying rats,” he says solemnly.

“Pigeons,” I correct him.

“Flying rats,” he corrects me. “If you’re gonna talk about them at least use their proper name.”

“Seagulls are flying rats,” I retort. “Have you ever interacted with a seagull?”

Martinez looked at me incredulously. “No, dude. I’m from New York.”

“Surely they have seagulls in New York, it’s by the coast.” Even Chicago has seagulls, and all it has is the great lakes.

“No. You know what they do have? Flying rats.” He laughs.

We’re silent for a moment, both still smiling.

“Maybe once I’m on Earth it will be better,” I mumble. “Earth has full gravity, and isn’t quiet, and has blue skies during the day, and supports human life. Being on the Hermes is a lot better because I have you guys here and I’m not starving to death, but it’s still being trapped on a spaceship waiting to die.”

Martinez rolled his eyes. “We are not waiting to die, Johanssen’s calculations get us home well in time.”

“You could still run out of fuel and we could shoot off into space and die,” I mumble.

Martinez pales, but keeps his face straight.

“Shit, I’m sorry, I’m just really jaded these days,” I mumble.

Martinez takes a deep breath. “I know. But I’m a good pilot. We will get into orbit fine.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“Does it?”

I search inside myself. “Yeah, a little.”

“A little is better than nothing.” He claps my shoulder. “Come on, let’s go lay in bed and talk and at least pretend to fall back asleep.”

My heart jumps into my throat. I know damn well I’m not going to fall asleep, so it’s just going to be Martinez falling asleep on me. And it is so stupid, and not fair, but if he falls asleep on me I’m going to feel just as rejected as if he walked out of this conversation outright.

“No, it’s all right, I’ll stay here,” I mumble. “I’ll be fine. You go to bed.” For some reason it will hurt less if I pre empt him, if I’m the one who closes down instead.

Martinez laughs outright. “Ah hah. I’m not falling for that. I’m gonna at least go grab my laptop, all right?”

He looks at me in the eye, and I realize he’s actually waiting for a response.

“Yeah.”

“Sit right there,” he says, pointing at me as he leaves the room.

He must have ran through the ship, because he’s back with his laptop in an impossibly short amount of time.

We spend the rest of the morning in that lab, Martinez leaning over the lab table and dozing lightly while I wander around and talk to my plants. Yes, it’s me talking out loud to myself in front of Martinez, but I don’t care anymore. I’m coming to terms with the fact that loudly talking to myself like a crazy person is a new aspect of my personality, and it’s here to stay.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 855

Today is another good day. Me and Martinez are doing our very best to waste time playing cards when Lewis walks into the rec room.

“NASA wants us to do an EVA to verify the state of the insulation,” She’s saying, looking at her tablet. “and we need someone to fill in for Johanssen -”

“I think Beck’s already filling in for Johanssen,” I say, snickering.

Martinez leans over, gleefully high-fives me as we grin.

Lewis glowers at us. “Yes, as our EVA specialist, he _is_. The two of you are going to go out today.”

Oh great, we get to deal with NASA’s EVA prep all day. “When, this afternoon?”

“Yeah,” Lewis said. “Meet him at the airlock. You know the drill.”

“So NASA has caved and is letting the crazy guy go on EVA’s,” I say, watching her walk out.

Martinez shrugged. “It’s like you said, you aren’t gonna kill us all. Also, crazy or not you’re the best mechanic we have.”

“ _Mechanical engineer_ ,” I correct him jokingly. “Get it right.”

“Fix it man,” he replies. “That’s right. You’re the ship handyman.”

On instinct, I reach my hand up and push him on the shoulder. He moves with the motion, still laughing.

In that moment, time stills. I watch him laugh, the smile etched on his face. It’s a perfect moment.

That’s the first time I’ve voluntarily touched someone since I’ve gotten back on board. Oh, I’m not counting when I freak out and leap at people, or when I reach out to someone because I’m crying so hard I think I’m going to pass out.

It’s the first time I’ve just touched someone freely, carelessly, the way I always used to.

“What?” Martinez asks. I guess I was silent too long.

“Oh, nothing, just…” I shake my head. I reach up and grab his shoulder again, just because I can. “I’m feeling good, that’s all.”

It’s true. Right in this moment, there’s no pain, no suffering. I am okay again.

He smiles, a genuine smile. “Good. You’re going to need to if you’re going to deal with NASA later.”

He keeps talking, but I don’t pay attention, just appreciating the moment. If only for a moment, I am okay.

—

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 855

So I felt good this morning, but it didn’t stick around. It’s making me nervous as hell to check on this insulation, more nervous than I was actually fixing it. Dread is pooling in my gut, hot and black, and the only thing that’s going to fix it is going out there and checking on the insulation.

Nothing is wrong. After a while, you begin to get a sense for these things, somewhere in your gut that says ‘everything is fine’ or ‘everything is very, very wrong.’ For instance, I got a ‘very, very wrong’ feeling in my gut which prompted me to check the air composition in the Hab, and then I found out it became the Hindenburg. I’m not getting a very wrong sense here; everything feels fine. But there’s just nothing like seeing that it’s fine, with your eyes, in real life.

“Ready?” Beck asks, suited up in the airlock.

It’s making me nervous putting this EVA suit on, too. The last time I had an EVA suit on with Beck, he was reeling me in from the space shuttle ride from hell.

I latch the EVA helmet on. Looking at him through the reflective glass pulls at something in me, and I can feel echoes of the pain, broken ribs and starvation pulling inside my body.

It’s just an EVA Watney, pull it together.

“Ready.”

The air is sucked back into the cabin, and god damnit do I hate the clunking sound of the ship pulling all the air back into the cabin. I swear to god, it’s actually making me physically hurt inside.

Ten awful minutes later, and it’s finally over and we’re in space. At least deep space EVAs don’t remind me of Mars, just blessed black space and 0 gravity.

“Get over there, take the panel off, have a look, put the panel on, get inside,” I repeat to myself. “Easy peasy.”

“That’s right,” Beck says, and it startles the shit out of me so badly I jump in the suit.

He laughs. “Forget I was there?”

I roll my eyes. “You know how I am. I’m just nervous.”

“Why?” he asks. “You were less nervous to actually fix it.”

“Fixing it is go-time,” I say. “This… there’s nothing we can do if it’s broke. We’re just finding out if we’re dead or not.”

“The equations hold up,” Beck reminds me warmly. “We’re fine.” It’s stretching the truth, but with only 56 days to go, it’s time to stretch the truth.

Beck is a great doctor, and he continues to talk to me warmly as we get the panel off. Of course, it looks perfectly fine, and we’re able to just screw the panel back on and get inside.

“You did great,” Beck says as we wait for the airlock to repressurize.

I roll my eyes. “Gee thanks, Dr. Beck, can I get my sticker now?”

“Don’t be such an asshole,” he says exasperatedly. “It was hard for you and you know it.”

“It shouldn’t be hard for me,” I grumble. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Beck’s response is a little hard and irritated. “Ok, you know what, Mark? It is. Whatever the reason, it is. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

The words stick in my mind for a moment. _Don’t be so hard on yourself_. I repeat them over and over in my head, trying to believe them.

“You really think I’m being hard on myself?” I ask. Yes, I know he believes it, but I want to hear him say it again.

His reply is swift. “Of course you are.”

“For gods sake, Watney,” Lewis’s voice sounds over the radio. “You were alone on Mars for 549 sols. Cut yourself a break.”

 _Don’t be so hard on yourself. Cut yourself a break._ I don’t say anything more, just repeat their words in my head. I would have them repeat them out loud, if I could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More incorrectthemartianquotes goodness in this chapter!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a short chapter, and it's not as great as I'd like it to be, but I'd rather post the lackluster incomplete version than have none at all.

Log Entry  
Mission Day 856

It’s 42 days until we return to earth, and this must be when NASA earmarked “make Mark Watney deal with real life,” because I have been getting a series of very annoying emails. Among them are “how to deal with the press,” “we’ve prepared some answers to press questions for you,” “here’s some NASA guidelines on how to behave,” and my hospital information. I’m getting kept in Houston, by the way. Lovely.

They’re making me sign a ton of forms, too, so that the forms are all signed and taken care of by the time we get back. I don’t even get to keep my power of attorney, and they’re assigning me a guardian in the form of Chris Beck. I know it’s not that I think I’m _that_ crazy, they just want to have ironclad control over me when I get back, and if I have my own power of attorney I could check myself out AMA.

It’s not too late to kill myself. I could just do it now and not deal with all of this.

Stop it, _Mark_ , suicide is not an appropriate way to handle your problems.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 858

Earth is getting bigger in the rec room window. It’s just like I pictured. Big, blue and green and red, covered in lights and clouds. There are thousands of satellite photos of earth just like it, but nothing can capture the beauty of the sight quite the way your eyes can.

Seeing the beauty of it eases something in my chest, something unwinding, being replaced by a sense of dread in my stomach. The fear of death being replaced by the fear of life, how poetic.

The temperature on the Hermes has been steadily dropping since her reactor fix, and we’re back to living in a comfortable temperature. By the time we leave, it’ll be back to icy. Man, those guys are gonna have a hell of a job fixing the ship.

“What’s up?” Johanssen asks, plopping down beside me.

She startles me, I jerk, same as usual. “Nothin’ much.”

She looks at me plaintively. “How are you feeling?” she asks softly.

Oh, I don’t want to do this. “Miserable, like usual.” My chest still feels like lead, but I’m so used to it it barely registers. “You?”

She’s gazing out at earth with me. “I’m excited to be home,” is her soft reply. “Haven’t seen a blue sky in a while.”

I look down at my oatmeal. “I have. On Mars, just as the sun sets, the sky flashes blue, just for a second.”

Her eyes turn to me.

My words are mumbled. “For a couple months I always stayed up until sunset.”

She puts a hand on my shoulder, and it’s warm.

“Didn’t think I’d ever see it again,” my mouth keeps saying in that depressing voice. God, I never shut up, do I?

She smiles widely. “But you are. We’re only 40 days away.”

I look up at her, at her eager young face. She’s smiling broadly, and it looks wrong in contrast to the stark emptiness in my chest.

It doesn’t feel like I’m ever going to see that blue sky again, even if we’re only 45 days away from it.

I try to return her smile, remembering to crinkle my eyes to make it real. It doesn’t seem to satisfy her.

“Why are you so miserable?” She asks quietly, casually.

I set my empty bowl on the table. “Because I am,” I offer lamely. “Hell, I think misery doesn’t even think of me as company anymore. I’m like… an official roommate.” I really need to change the subject. “Johanssen, Did you know the guy who wrote ‘misery loves company’ was a botanist? John Ray, naturalist and botanist. Botanists back then were so hardcore.”

“Why on earth do you know that?” She asks with exasperation.

“It was in one of your weird period novels,” I supply.

She raises her eyebrows in response. “Really?”

“Yeah. I read them, like, ten times each.”

“That’s horrifying,” Martinez says, sliding down into the rec room. “Truly, Watney, horrifying.”

I chuckle. “I know, I was there.”

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 860

Somehow, we all decided that we were going to meditate today. Some quack doctor told Beck I should try meditation, and I guess Beck told Johanssen who said she loves meditating, and then Lewis said she’d try after Johanssen told her, and then Martinez and Vogel overheard them, and now we’re here.

“Does everyone really need to be here?” I whined, as everyone shuffled into my room at once.

“I mean, no, but we’re all going to wait outside and eavesdrop if you don’t let us,” Martinez said cheekily.

“Your yogi ass probably loves this,” I joke, looking at Johanssen.

“I figured if everyone did it you’d feel less alone and singled out,” Beck explained, half apologetically.

I raised my eyebrows. “So why are we staying in my quarters?”

“Because meditation is traditionally done sitting up, but I’m going to have you laying down. You’re supposed to fight the urge to fall asleep, but you need sleep.”

I shrug, because there’s nothing I can do. Everyone sits along my bunkroom wall, with Beck in the center.

I’d love to say this is the gayest thing I’ve ever done, but I get really emotional when I’m in a relationship, so it’s really not.

“This is not something I expected to be spending time on when I sighed up to travel the galaxy,” I said instead.

“Neither I,” Vogel admitted, “But it is something new to try.”

“Lay down everyone,” Beck commands with a waving arm, so I lay down on the amazing mattress. Months since my rescue, and this mattress is still amazing. God bless this mattress.

“Now empty your minds,” Beck says in a smooth and calming voice.

“Ooh, Mark’s really good at that,” Martinez says, snickering.

Despite myself, I grin. “What the fuck, man.”

Beck and Lewis look condescendingly at us until our snickering stops.

“All right, now that the children have settled down,” Beck says witheringly, “Empty your minds…”

The entire practice makes me feel emotionally vulnerable, and all I want to do is sit up and make a mocking comment about the saccharine sweetness of it all. But this is supposed to help me, so I resist the temptation.

He talks to us for five minutes solid, just telling us to be still and feel our bodies. Feel your hands, feel your shoulders, feel your back, pay attention to all of these things in turn. He’s speaking calmly and evenly, and I think he’s working from a script. 

I can almost feel the anxiety inside me, like a wriggling worm that can’t sit still. I don’t want to deal with it, I want to go do something else where I can forget about it, but I don’t. Somehow, actually feeling it in my chest like this makes me feel like I’m addressing it in a way I haven’t been able to until now.

We’re told to focus our awareness inside. On our toes, and then our feet, working our way up the body. Soon I’ve forgotten everyone else is there, and it’s only me in this body I’m scanning. This entire universe is the blackness behind my eyelids.

Man, does my body hurt. I mean, I knew I hurt, but I didn’t know I hurt _this_ _much_. My knees are aching like I’ve walked five hundred miles, I can actually feel the bones inside of them scraping. I can feel pain radiating from the small of my back, reaching red hot all the way up to my shoulders. All I’m doing is laying in bed!

I can feel the anxiety in my chest too, fighting, like it’s some sort of sentient monster. I try to pin it down, but that seems to only make it stronger, writhing in my chest. Beck isn’t telling me to do anything about it, so I release it and let it roam around, except roam around feels like it’s tearing through me. My breathing gets shallower in response.

Feel my fingertips, feel my hand, feel my arm, just like Beck says.

But come to think of it, I can’t really feel my arm. Where is my arm?

My breath catches, panic thunders through my veins even though I don’t move. Where the fuck is my arm? 

Beck senses my reaction, I suppose, and tells us all to just do breathing exercises for another couple minutes. Unbelievably, it works, and the feeling of panic from not knowing where my arm is begins to back off.  I can still feel the sheets under it if I twitch, just barely. It kind of breaks the zone, but I don’t care, I want to be able to feel my arm.

We go back up the knees, and legs, and at each stop I feel more and more soreness and hurt. The hurt isn’t so bad though. It isn’t tearing at my insides like it usually does. It’s almost enjoyable, like after a long day of work and you feel productive. I’ve always liked that feeling; maybe I’m glad we did this.

But when we get to the chest, my attitude begins to turn. We focus on our chests, and that cavernous space is there, except it’s ten times as large. The anxiety is still tearing up my insides and making my breath shallow. I feel like I’m going to get sucked into it, my depression, because it’s a vast vacuum and I can feel it pulling me in. I’m going to fall into it and never make it out again.

Deep breaths, Watney.  Push your stomach out to breathe, breathing is in the core, not the chest.

“Accept and feel what your body is communicating,” Beck is saying. He must hear the harsh breaths I’m pulling in, because I don’t feel like I have enough space in my chest. I feel like a car is on my chest and I’m being told to breathe to lift it up.

This feeling, it’s hell all over again, every night going to bed with this huge cavern in my chest because I am alone on this planet and no one is coming to save me. Accept this? What is there to accept, that I am going to die in a virtual vacuum and be buried in dust the consistency of talcum powder?

No, he means accept the feeling. I’ve already beaten this feeling, I’ve already survived. Hopeless cavern inside of me, you already lost. I don’t need you.

“Accept,” Beck is saying. “Do not fight what your body is telling you.” Okay, so I guess you can feel like a cavern if you want, won’t do nothin’ for you, _chest_.  I accept that you’re there.

“This feeling is not hurting you,” he’s still saying in that slow voice. Well, except for the physical pain, it isn’t. I’m in good health, and my body is in pain but on the mend. Despite this feeling, I’m safe here. I accept that this feeling is going to be with me for as long as my body thinks it needs to be.

But then my mind flashes forward, imaging ten or twenty years with this pain. A lifetime with this pain. Dying with this pain. Dying having never really escaped.

The terror rips through me like a tidal wave.

I sit up abruptly, a bout of vertigo hitting me. Everyone’s eyes are already on me, like they were staring at me before I sat up.

“Were you lazeabouts even meditating?” I grind out. My voice sounds low and shaky, still.

“At first, yeah,” Martinez said.  “It was pretty cool. But then you sounded like you were having an asthma attack, so we cared about that more.”

Okay, fine. That makes sense. My body is still in pain, like the meditation drug it forward and put it center stage. “I’m in a lot of pain,” I say, hunching over.

“Believe it or not, that’s good,” Beck said.  “It means you’re bringing your injuries to the forefront of your mind, and your body will heal them.”

“Meditation gives me magical healing powers?” I say dryly, hand at my chest, doing nothing to help the cavernous feeling. God damnit, it’s emptying me inside out.

“If the pain is psychosomatic, which I highly suspect that some of it is.”

I know which pain is psychosomatic. This damn ache in my chest. “The ache in my knees and my back is all natural.”

Beck frowns. “If you’re still suffering from that, we should really get some more tests done. Luckily we’ll be on earth soon.”

I don’t give a fuck about my back, make the feeling in my chest stop. I want to curl up on this bed, but they’re all sitting around me staring at me like they’re expecting me to say something.

“That’s good. Guys, I’m tired, can I…” I trail off, gesturing to the bed, massaging my sternum with my fingers.

They all easily agree, and within seconds have filed out of my bunk room, except for Beck, who takes a seat and starts clacking around on his laptop.

I lay down in the bed, curl up on my side, and eventually I fall asleep.

-

Chris Beck  
Mission Day 860

Beck sat in the center of Watney’s bunk room, everyone sitting cross legged against the wall but himself.

He read off of a script NASA provided him, in the slow regular voice he was instructed to. “Empty your minds…”

For a couple minutes, the practice is boring. He’s reading off of this tablet, because they couldn’t download the audio data to the Hermes, and he’s just staring at their closed eyes.

Another couple minutes, and Beck starts to see the effects of his speech. Everyone’s bodies are slackening against the wall, and Beck can see how Watney’s shoulders relax against the bed.

Beck has meditated before, once, during his brief psychological courses during his doctorate. He had to admit, it was an amazing experience. The proctor walked them through the feeling of being on a boat, with one hand in the water, and Beck would swear he physically felt the water running between his fingers.

NASA’s script had no scenario of being on a boat, or in a grassy field; it just directed them to feel their bodies and accept what they found there. Dr. Shields said it was centered around not fighting pain, because the first step to solving mental health issues was to stop being at odds with their existence.

For another couple minutes Beck just speaks, watching their bodies relax.

Suddenly, Watney’s breath hitched. His breathing bottoms out, and he’s taking short, harsh breaths. NASA has a section called ‘if patient becomes agitated,’ so Beck starts reading from that section of the script. It seems to work, because his breaths become deeper again to match everyone else’s slow breaths.

It doesn’t last long, and Watney’s breathing becomes harsh again. Beck knew there was something to meditation, but he couldn’t guess at what Watney was feeling at the moment. Hell, Beck couldn’t imagine what it was Watney felt on a day-to-day basis.

Beck frowned, reading the script as Watney became more and more agitated. His fingers started to dance around on top of the sheets, as everyone else opened their eyes to stare at him.

‘What are you doing?’ Beck mouths at them. ‘Rude.’

Martinez shrugs in response, and Beck rolls his eyes.

Beck continues to read, and they sit there silently, faces growing more concerned. Watney’s making harsh noises like he’s upset, twitching more and more on top of the bed. After a minute, he’s scared he’s triggered some sort of flashback.

Suddenly Watney sits up, eyes flared wide and breathing ragged. Beck’s about to ask if he’s okay, but Watney beats him to the punch.

“Were you lazeabouts even meditating?” he says, and his voice is strained and low but it’s still a joke.

“At first, yeah,” Martinez said. “It was pretty cool. But then you sounded like you were having an asthma attack, so we cared about that more.”

Watney rolls his eyes, shrugs, and settles in more in the bed.

“I’m in a lot of pain,” he mumbles, sitting forward.

“Believe it or not, that’s good,” Beck offers.  “It means you’re bringing your injuries to the forefront of your mind, and your body will heal them.”

“Meditation gives me magical healing powers?” He says dryly, rubbing the center of his chest where they know he physically hurts.

“If the pain is psychosomatic, which I highly suspect that some of it is,” Beck says lamely.

“The ache in my knees and my back is all natural,” he bitches.

Beck frowns. “If you’re still suffering from that, we should really get some more tests done. Luckily we’ll be on earth soon.”

“That’s good,” He says, as if he doesn’t give a single fuck. “Guys, I’m tired, can I…” He lamely points at the bed and lays down.

Beck remains in the room as per usual, and makes a point of being busy on his laptop and clacking on his keyboard. He scours the NASA files that they sent him on meditation. A header says, _Effects On Traumatized Patients_ , and he begins reading.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 863

I was alone in the rec room. Johanssen was babysitting me today, but she ran off to go grab a paper or something, and it’s been nearly a month since I tried to throw myself out the VAL so they feel comfortable leaving me alone for two second stretches.

That inky blackness looked out at me. That dead feeling was spreading through my chest. I don’t know how to fight it. I couldn’t fight the way it was taking me over. And why fight, either?  There was no reason to.  There was nothing to do, no battle right now.

The rec lights were dim, meaning it was somewhere around sunset on our clocks, which were Houston time. What season was it in Houston? I didn’t know. 

I looked into the blackness, in the direction I knew earth was. There was no sign.

_The inky blackness stared back at me through the holes in the disassembled MAV.  Here I was, abandoned in a convertible spaceship in Mars’ atmosphere.  I could feel the straps binding me down into the MAV, and I didn’t fight them.  No point separating myself from the vehicle when they were coming for me.  It would throw all their calculations off._

_But every so often Mars would pass by in my rotating view of the sky.  It made my stomach drop._

_It was so silent in space.  Floating, the only noise came from inside the pressurized helmet as I move my neck to try and get a better view. It was silent on Mars too._

_Suddenly, I’m just standing on the top of a hill, kicking a rock waiting for the rover to charge.  I’m the first to do this, I’m the first to do that.  I’m the only one who is doing that.  I’m the only one doing anything.  I’m the only one on this entire planet.  The wind looks like it’s howling, forming sandy tornadoes, but it’s completely silent.  The only thing I can hear is the cotton fabric inside my EVA suit._

_I feel so alone I could cry, but it’s been long enough that the tears don’t come anymore, and instead I just distantly feel the emptiness take over my entire body._

_I looked out at the red planet, the orange sands in the sky.  I tried not to think about it, but in downtime like this it was hard to forget that I’m the only one here.  I look out at that horizon, and picture it stretching on this way for miles and miles, and there’s no change in the desolate land but me.  I look at the horizon, and imagine the entire spherical surface of the planet, completely and utterly undisturbed._

_Oh god, it doesn’t matter how loud I scream, because the only people to hear are millions of miles away, in my ship, without me.  Heading home.  Leaving me here.  That pit in my chest grows, almost vibrating.  I look at the pale blue dot, and it’s 140 million miles away._

_My entire crew left me here, I’m alone on this god forsaken sandy planet looking around in the fucking sand dunes of Mars for a shitty probe made in 1997 and_ praying _that it still works and_ praying _that the communication channel it uses is open.  I don’t want to think about if it isn’t._

_I can imagine what the Hermes looks like in the sky, rocketing away from me._

_The emptiness in my chest grows, and changes into something else._

_Don’t think like this, Watney, it won’t get you off this rock.  You don’t need it._

_But it is so silent._

-

Beth Johanssen

Mission Day 863

Johanssen walked into the rec room to make herself a midday snack, to find Watney standing stock still and staring out the rec room window.

“Watney?” Johanssen asked gently, not wanting to startle him too badly.

He was standing at the window, staring, and didn’t respond.  He was really zoned out, and she knew she was going to startle the shit out of him, but it couldn’t be helped.

“Watney!” she yelled, in his ear.

But Watney didn’t do anything but stand there and keep staring out the window.  And when Johanssen leaned in, he looked like he was looking at something else.

“Mark?” He gave no response.

As usual, the sound of her loud voice drew Beck, who entered the room. Just as he stepped in, Johanssen reached out to shake his shoulder.

-

Mark Watney

Mission Day 863

I’m jerked back into reality, gasping, jumping back from the hand on my shoulder and almost losing my balance. I’m panting; I’m not on Mars.  That’s Mars in the distance, but we’re on the Hermes. 

“Are you with us?” I finally hear Beck’s voice, invading my consciousness.

God, my heart is pounding. My awareness left Mars, but the desolate emptiness is still pounding through my veins. “Yeah, not on Mars, on Hermes, got the memo.”

“What happened?” Beck asked, as if it weren’t obvious.

I opened my mouth.  What was the trigger?  What set this off?  It just sort of… happened.

“It’s really silent on Mars,” I say uncertainly. “The only things I ever heard were shitty music, really loud wind against the Hab, and the inside of the helmet.  It was really silent in here too, and I was staring out there,” I held my hand out, panting.

“You just _forgot_ you were on the Hermes?” Vogel asked plainly.

I shrugged, still panting. “Yeah.  What do you want from me? I can’t control it.”

I hate the aftermath of flashbacks. Now that I’m on the Hermes relatively fed and healed, my brain seems to think it’s time to feel all the things I studiously avoided feeling.  Like _oh God I’m doing to die on this rock_ , _I need to kill myself before I die on this rock,_ and _I’m never seeing anyone I love again, and they don’t care because they don’t love me._

After a flashback is when my body dumps panic into my blood, too, so in addition to the crushing depression I’m left feeling like I could have ran the 3200km to Schiaparelli crater in ten minutes.  Depression makes me want to sink into my bed and never get up, so it’s not a good combination.

I’ll tell myself what I told myself then.  _Don’t be ridiculous Watney, they didn’t leave you behind on purpose. They love you._

They were all looking at me, and I figured they were waiting for some kind of heart to heart.

“It’s so silent,” I say as some sort of offering.  “You all know how silent space can be, but imagine that silence being the only thing you hear for 549 days.  Well, that and the captain’s terrible disco music,” I weakly joked, sitting down at the table.  “Just made me feel alone, is all.”

Dimly, I was aware that that was the understatement of the century.  But I was not in a mood to pity myself, so I ignored it.

“At least that’s a clear trigger you can avoid,” Beck says.

“Yeah, as opposed to all the times I go crazy for no fucking reason,” I say, resentfully.

Beck shrugged. “There’s therapy for this stuff.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Oh really?”

“I requested some more PTSD stuff in the data dump. On earth, you’d be given therapy called DBT, but I’m not trained in it.”

“You’re practically useless,” I quip. “Almost as bad as Martinez.”

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 867

Johanssen and I are both sitting in my lab. I’m busy repotting a tiny growing fern, when suddenly the smell of ammonia hits my nose.

I can see Johanssen in front of me, but suddenly she’s hard to see.  My ears are ringing, the ringing growing louder, my hands are shaking. I drop the plant in the pot. What the hell is happening to me?

I feel a pain in my forehead, and bring my hand up to touch it. Oh, the explosion, the ammonia. I blew myself up trying to light hydrazine on fire. The pain in my forehead is growing, and my muscles are aching

“Where is the ammonia coming from?” I ask, distractedly. It needs to stop. 

Johanssen says “I think Vogel is doing something -” Okay, so it’s not the ship breaking, that’s all I need to know.

I push off of a wall and away from the science rooms. I’m shaky, the ringing is increasing in my ears, I’m getting dizzy.

Hopefully I left my door closed - I did leave my door closed, I always do these days. I shut myself inside quickly, and none of the ammonia wafts inside. 

I collapse on my bed against the wall, and put my head in my hands.  My head is really hurting now, like the explosion is playing back in slow motion.  The ringing in my ears is growing still, and all my muscles ache.

“Watney?” It’s Johanssen’s voice from the other side of the door.

“Don’t let any of the air in,” I say, drawing a ragged breath.

She quickly darts inside.  “The smell isn’t that bad,” is her response.

I shake my head. “No, I’m…” I grab my head, as if that explains anything.  “I’m having a flashback.”

She pulls up the chair beside my bed, and sits down.  “Having?”

I’m really shaking now, and I can’t quite hear her.  “It isn’t that bad.”  And it isn’t, really, but I’m a big whiny baby and I’m bitter that this is happening at all. Fuck Mars. Fuck all of this.

“Talk to me,” she said.

My explanation comes in between panting from the pain. “Well, when you light hydrazine on fire, not all of the ammonia burns. And sometimes it all burns at you, at once, in an explosion.”  I motioned around the room.  “Some of the ammonia didn’t burn up, so the Hab smelled like ammonia for months afterwards.”

“You blew yourself up?” Her voice is indistinct and quiet, far away, but luckily the only thing I’m seeing is her.

“Yeah,” I motioned to my head.  “I got a bruise right here, which I can feel right now. My ears are ringing, too, and my eyes are watering because they’re dry from the blast.”  It’s true, I’d already began to cry, because on the Hermes there were no ashes to blink away.

“You’re having the physical symptoms? Flashbacks can do that?” She shook her head. “Bodies are weird.”

“Don’t need to tell me,” I said. I cradled my aching body.  “But at least I am, you know, present.”  No weird emotional flares, just a replay of the achiness. And frankly, that was mild and a-okay with me.

“I’ll go ask Vogel how long what he’s doing will take,” Johanssen said quietly, slipping out of the room.

It wasn’t five minutes before she was back. “Vogel’s almost done, and the Hermes will have filtered the air inside of twenty minutes. So I’d say you can come back out in half an hour.”

I nodded tiredly, getting dizzy. The symptoms weren’t as severe as the real explosion, but I was confused and tired, tired from the symptoms, tired from fucking flashbacks all the time, tired from nightmares every night, tired from choking anxiety every day. “Get out of my room,” I say, a light smile on my face.

“Fine,” she quips back, but as she closes the door I can see the worry in her eyes.

I lay back on the bed, dizzy and shaking. I just want all of this to fucking stop.

-

Log Entry  
Mission Day 868

Oh my God, I’m going to be on Earth in 30 days!

Something about that makes it seem so real. 30 days. Days, not sols, not hundreds of sols from now, not in a far fetched future I might never live to see. _30 days._

I’m excited. Really, excited, enough that I can feel the nervous energy in my arms and legs and I’ve been pacing around the ship all day. It’s not just positive either; half of me wants to be on Earth _now_ and the other half perversely just wants another day or two on the Hermes before I can go back.

Yes, I’m saying it, part of me doesn’t want to go to Earth. It’s not going to be the Earth I knew. There’s no home in Chicago anymore, there’s no fun coming home parties, there’s just being shoved in an ambulance and locked up in a hospital for the forseeable future. Probably a waterfall of pills and quack doctor therapy

I’ve sifted through a great deal of the emails I’ve received now, and we’re close enough to earth to get meaningful communication, so I’m beginning the tedious work of figuring out how saving me actually worked.

Maybe I’ll get someone to send me all the _Watch Mark Watney Die_ CNN footage so I can watch it as it happened, from their perspective. 

Actually, that sounds like a minefield of flashbacks and unpleasantness, so maybe not.

Mitch sent a summary of all the people who had major roles and their email addresses. Lots of names at JPL, Mission Control, Major World Governments (presumably for donor money), and quite a few celebrities were on there. It doesn’t escape my notice that one of them is David Tenant. Doctor Who isn’t my very favorite show, but it’s definitely up there. Most of the titles from NASA were normal, like “Iris Engineer” or “Satellite Manager,” but one title stuck out to me.  “Watney Stalker - Minerva Park.” 

Watney Stalker? What, was she paid to keep daily tabs on me?

My response to Mitch is perfunctory.

_Mitch,_

_Thanks for the list. Just one question - what is a Watney Stalker?_

_\- Mark_

-

Log Entry  
Mission Day 869

Mitch emailed me back about Watney Stalker.  Turns out she’s actually the engineer who went through my satellite images and figured out I’m alive! And proceeded to spend every waking moment of her days keeping tabs on me. Mitch emailed me, in what I can only hope was a remorseful tone of voice, that they were going to write off the rover movements, but she’s the one who put it all together, and that’s why NASA had pathfinder ready when I got it together.

She actually learned to sleep on my schedule, eat on my schedule, and watched literally every satellite image. She is the one who learned Morse Code to decode my messages, and she’s the one who told everyone what I said every day. She’s the one who had to figure out whatever hairbrained scheme I’d come up with that sol. Whenever Venkat mentioned “she’s watching,” this is who he meant. 

Kind of weird, actually. Whenever I was sitting forlornly on the surface of Mars, looking at Earth, that there was literally a specific person looking back at me.

Mitch told me to be nice when I email her, because she got emotionally invested and considers me a close friend now.  An old me might say “creepy, man” but anyone who dedicated six-hundred-some days of their life to keeping me alive is my best friend.  We just have to get to know each other, is all, and I’ll start by taking her out to dinner. And then her family, if she’s got one. 

What if she’s a little old lady who is close to retiring? Or what if she’s a pretty lady that I end up falling in love with and marrying? Wouldn’t it be awkward if dinner goes horribly and we don’t get along? I don’t think it’s possible, considering I love anyone who allowed me to not die on that fucking rock. But what if she ends up being a bitch? It’s not unlikely, because anyone who works for Houston sucks and has a stick up their butt. But hell, she saved me, so I’ll get over it. If we’re totally different I’ll just learn all her favorite TV shows or whatever and talk to her about them, because I owe her my life.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 869

“We’ve got a video from Houston,” Johanssen said, standing in the doorway. “Come to the rec room.”

Beck is my appointed guardian for the day, so Beck and I get up from our lab and go to the rec room. Mitch Henderson’s face fills the screen, a big play button in the middle. As soon as we get behind the screen, Johanssen sits in the computer and presses play.

“Ares III,” Mitch says. “Mark. I don’t know how you’re going to take this -”

“Always a good start,” I comment dryly.

“- but NASA has decided to release your video logs to the public, with as little censored as possible. They think that your experiences are valuable across a number of scientific disciplines, but…” he shuffled around some papers on screen. “They also say that ‘your determination and optimism are what NASA stands for, and to ensure that we are able to continue to explore the universe, we want the world to know what we stand for through these videos.’ Basically, they want you to be a mascot.”

“I can understand why you might not like this.” I snort. “If you want, I’ll fight my hardest here at Houston to censor personal elements and keep it strictly science. Just let me know. To the rest of Ares III, this is addressed to all of you because he mentions you extensively in his video logs, and even speaks to you frequently as if you’re there, and many of your personal details are also shared in those logs. If you want your privacy, I’ll get your information removed from them. Let me know by the end of the day.” Mitch waved bye, and then the screen froze.

Everyone turned to me.

“We haven’t watched the video logs yet,” Lewis explained. “If you want, we can make it so no one will.”

“No, no,” I find myself saying. “They can release them. There’s only a few moments I want redacted, I’ll write Mitch an email.”

Martinez blinked. “Why?”

I shuffle my feet a bit. “When I recorded those logs, I thought people would watch them. I thought I’d be dead by the time they did, yeah, but I thought someone would watch them. It…” I sigh. “If nobody watches them, then it’s like it didn’t happen.”

“That’s not true,” Lewis starts.

“No, it is. I was alone, on an entire planet, and that entire place will be buried by sand by the time any human is there again. All anyone else can see are grainy satellite photos, like I’m an experiment. Those video logs are the only evidence it ever happened.”

They all nod heavily.

“Do you at least want to watch them first?” Johanssen asks.

I shake my head firmly. “No fucking way. I’m never watching them if I can get away with it.”

“But you’re sure -” Lewis started.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I say, a little exasperated. “It’s like those emails I received. If what I went through can help even one person, then that makes it a little more worth it.”

“They don’t even have them yet, anyways,” Lewis said. “The data transfer rate isn’t good enough; they won’t have them until we land. So you can always change your mind.”

“Here, I’ll let you guys watch first,” I say. “If I can bear you seeing them, I can bear the world seeing them.”

-

Log Entry  
Mission Day 869

What I didn’t tell the crew is that having them see it is much harder than having the world see. I don’t give a single fuck what a stranger thinks about my pain or my behavior. For some reason, I feel fine about the idea of telling a stranger everything about what I’ve suffered. I’ll tell a stranger every awful thought I’ve ever had. It’s like telling the internet; the person I tell will disappear forever, and it’s not like I’ve really told anyone.

But the crew are my best friends. I love them. I care about their reaction.

I’ve been wanting to talk about what happened anyways. Having them watch those video logs feels a lot easier than actually telling them what happened.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 875

So we spent, like, a week and a half watching my logs. It was emotionally draining, and long, but I’ve only deleted a few parts and the rest is going directly online. I’m fine with it being released to the general public. My only stipulation is that I never ever be made to watch it ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Incorrectthemartianquotes.tumblr.com strikes again.  
> \- One idea unapologetically ripped off from You Know You Have a Permanent Piece of My Medium-Sized American Heart by tricatular on ao3.  
> \- I didn’t cover watching the logs, like at all, because it takes such a specific and detailed writing effort that I decided to split it up into a minific that will be released at some later point in the series if I get around to completing it.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, this chapter isn't overwhelming, but I'd rather have it up then have it sitting on my hard drive where no one can see it, waiting for mythical 'perfection'

Log Entry  
Mission Day 878

Okay, so I’ve started by just sending everyone involved with my rescue their own email.

I’ll admit it, I didn’t write every single email personally. I wanted to, but for a lot of them I just ran out of things to say. Like, there was a team of people that was test driving my rover while were preparing for Schiaparelli; they never found anything wrong with the rover, but they spent their full time effort just driving a model into the dirt to expose problems. That entire team got the same copy-pasted email, because I don’t know any of them. I made up for it; I’ve offered them a beer and pizza office party.

So I wrote each team an email thanking them for their contribution, and there were a lot of teams; all the project teams at JPL for the rockets, and all the equipment testers, and then the entire physical team, the psychiatric team, astrophysics for course calculations, every Chinese team involved with the Taiyang Shen, that was like dozens of different teams and different emails. I’m keeping a spreadsheet of every team I’ve contacted and what I’ve promised them.

Beer and pizza. I’ve promised them all beer and pizza.

There are also a lot of people who deserve a personal email, and those are harder.

Some of them aren’t so hard. A lot of government officials have to get personal emails because Venkat told me so, and those aren’t that hard to write. Don’t tell them, but they all also basically got the same email. And a lot of celebrities pitched in to my rescue fund, and the celebrities who I don’t know were pretty easy to write to. I looked up what they were famous for, commented on it. NASA is holding some party for all the big donor names, so with each email I’m personally inviting them to the party.

Annie taught me how to do all of this wine-and-dining before we left, because I’m the unfortunate person saddled with press relations, but we never anticipated something of this scale. She’s sent me a literal waterfall of emails telling me who to contact and what to say, and I’ve BCC’d her on every email so that she can see them all.

But there are individual emails which are hard. Emails that aren’t being sent because of NASA, but because they’re the people who made my rescue possible at all.

Rich Purnell, astrophysics. Twenty-something man with Aspergers. No friends to speak of, loves his work. He just had the idea one day, took all of his vacation time to work out the calculations, and stormed into Venkat’s office with the solution. According to Bruce and Venk, he doesn’t even want any credit, and is insistent that he didn’t do it for me, but did it because he just loves using the supercomputer. But I can see through that a mile away; nobody voluntarily gives up all of their vacation time and risks getting fired to sit around in a freezing database hallway waiting on a computer. How can I possibly thank him?

Mindy Park, satcon. A masters of engineering who had a calm night shift taking satellite imagery of the solar system. Wasn’t even involved with the Ares missions, just happened to be on staff when Venkat sent in the request for the imaging. Venkat says _she’s_ saying that she was just doing her job, but learning my sleep schedule and becoming my professional stalker is not just doing your job. She’s the one who reported every time something went wrong, every time I typed a hysterical message into Pathfinder she’s the one who routed it to the correct people.

Venkat Kapoor. When I was about to give up, he talked me off the ledge. He sat on everyone’s ass to make sure everyone did everything they could to fucking save me. He may have just been doing his job at first, but he’s the one who stayed up the next couple weeks through the night just to keep checking up on me and making sure I was okay. The man was there when no one else was, and we’ve barely ever spoken in person. I probably need to apologize to him for, uh, nearly killing myself on his watch.

Mitch Henderson. He sent those coordinates to Lewis, gave them the choice to come back for me, and his reward was to get fired. He was ready to light his entire life on fire just to give Lewis and everyone else the chance to commit mutiny. He has a wife and children that agreed to get thrown under the bus if it would give me a chance at life. (Just another family I ruined).

Teddy Sanders. He voted against the maneuver. And… honestly, I agree with the decision. I would have too. He wanted to keep as many people alive as possible, he wanted to keep the people I love alive. He didn’t make that decision because he’s cold, he made it because he was trying to save as many people as possible. I want to tell him that while the entire rest of the crew might be pissed at him, I’m not, and I’m going to stand with him in the inevitable court cases to come.

Bruce Ng. From what I understand, he went from six to about 1.5 hours of sleep a night, lit his entire JPL budget on fire, and was caught drunk in his office more than a few times watching _The Watney Report on CNN_. I don’t know if he has a wife and kids, but if he does I need to apologize to them for ruining their father. (Just another family I ruined). He’s the one who had to say “we need to take off hull panel 19,” even though nobody wanted to do it, and if I remember correctly he’s the one who walked me through those ridiculous procedures. I was pretty out of it. I probably said some weird fucking shit to him, probably should apologize for it.

I can’t handle any of these emails right now.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 878

I shut the laptop and lay down. I’m lazing around in the gym turned bunk room, and Martinez is sitting up against the wall on his tablet doing god knows what, not paying any attention to me. It’s easy for me to pull the blankets over myself to just lay down and _think_.

I’ve barely begun the work of thanking everyone, and already it feels like my chest is being kicked in. Every time I read another person’s contributions, I see what they gave up to try and save me. Me, a person they’d never met, a shitty person, a person millions of miles away, a person who by that time had already lost most of their marbles, a person who wants to repay them by dying. And so many people gave up so much of their life to try and save me. There are hundreds of people who tripled their work hours, kissed their families goodbye for months or years under the workload, traveled across the world to test equipment or source materials or build things or god knows what. Hundreds more people sacrificed their hard-earned money to donate to saving me, sacrificed their hard-earned time to campaign with #BringHimHome.

What really makes my chest feel like it’s caving in is the fact that I agree with #LeaveHimThere. That’s what they should have done; they should have just left me fucking there. I’m just one guy. All that time and money could have been used for someone else, for starving kids in Africa or underprivileged teens or helping the poor get access to clean water.

But I know damn well if I had actually died Sol 6, that money wouldn’t have gone to those causes. It just wouldn’t have gone anywhere. People were willing to get off their asses for me, some random dude on another planet, but they don’t get off their asses for sub Saharan communities that don’t have access to running water. Those people shouldn’t have joined NASA, they should have joined the fucking Peace Corps. This is my same old rant about how people should care more about developing nations, and I’ve been ranting about it for years and it’s never changed a thing.

I’m tempted to tweet “#LeaveHimThere was right,” but that would kick off a press nightmare so huge that Annie would have my hide before I even got to go to the hospital. Annie has briefed me on how I’m supposed to act, and here’s basically what she said: Look, we all know you’re pretty fucked up these days, but the public Cannot Know. As far as they’re concerned, you’re happy, you’re healthy, you’re thrilled everyone tried to save you. I told her that that was ridiculous, since my video logs were being released, but she said that they’ll cleaned up and that they only intend to leave a few depressing moments in there for poignancy. I think they’re just going to release it all and then act like being rescued was a magical fix.

Annie, I want all this shit to blow over too. But it turns out, this shit is not just going to blow over. I’m fucked, forever, and all I want to do is just try and help others from it, try and make something good out of it.

It feels like elephants trampled my chest. This shit’s not just going to blow over. I’m fucked, forever.

I wonder what I would have thought if it were someone else? Not someone I love, just some stranger I’d never met. Like if it happened while I was in college, before I had big dreams of being a modern astronaut. I was a cynical son of a bitch, probably would have said #LeaveHimThere.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 881

“You know, we’re really close to earth. We’re getting a great data transfer rate, and the light-minute delay is getting reasonable…” I said, leaning over to Johanssen.

“What’s your point, Watney?” She said.

I grinned. “We can get back on twitter.”

She put her head in her hands. “Oh no.”

Since Ares III was the third mission, enthusiasm about the missions were dying down when we were winding up for launch. We all made official twitter accounts and social media presences, and participated in an Internet effort to revive the enthusiasm for the mission. It had a reasonable amount of success, in part because I’m a twitter whore and Lewis is a nerd goddess to freaky nerds everywhere.

“We can do a Q&A!” I said, enthused. I loved the idea of talking to lots of people, even if it was over just chats.

“They’re just gonna ask you about Mars,” Johanssen said. “We won’t even get questions.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I laughed. “I mention your nerdisms in the logs. You might have some fans of your own.”

Johanssen rolled her eyes. “Fine. If you set it up, I’ll do the Q&A.”

-

Twitter  
Mission Day 881

—

@dedenman: @ares3watney Why did you get selected for Mars by NASA?

@ares3watney: @dedenman for the vine

@ares3watney: @dedenman no really uh I don’t know probably for my resilience or whatever

@ares3beck: @dedenman @ares3watney was that a botany joke?

@ares3watney: @dedenman @ares3beck This is why I dig you so mulch

@dedenman: this just in @ares3watney king of bad puns #BringHimHome

—

@rdjkillsme: @ares3watney what’s the most embarassing movie on your media stick?

@ares3watney: @rdjkillsme Probably The Incredibles, although I’m not embarrassed by it

@ares3watney: @rdjkillsme It’s a beautiful story about hard work and good values

—

@anihloz: @ares3watney how did you get multiple masters without drowning in debt?

@ares3watney: @anihloz I did not. I was paying off debt when we left for Mars (1/2)

@ares3watney: @anihloz And if the NASA lawyers are correct I will be coming home to debt (2/2)

@anihloz: @ares3watney wtf man they’re not going to pay off your debt??

@ares3watney: @anihloz Do you hear that @NASA? The people think you should pay my debt off!

@anihloz: @NASA you left @ares3watney on Mars the least you can do is pay his loans

—

@coolkidzaregreat: @ares3watney what’s your biggest fear? …besides Mars

@ares3watney: @coolkidzaregreat it’s a tie between cops and, like, infidelity

@coolkidzaregreat: @ares3watney why infidelity? Have you been cheated on?? 0.0

@ares3watney: @coolkidzaregreat in high school I kissed my girlfriend’s twin sister on accident

—

@loveislove: @ares3beck what is your favorite holiday?

@ares3beck: @loveislove Christmas. Snow, family, living room fires, and children opening presents.

—

@hrgerard: @ares3beck how does it feel that people are speculating on your love life?

@ares3beck: @hrgerard nobody from Ares I or II had people speculating about their love lives

@ares3johanssen: @ares3beck @hrgerard this can all be blamed on an astronaut who shall remain nameless

@ares3watney: @ares3johanssen @ares3beck @hrgerard are you calling me cupid?

@ares3johanssen: @ares3watney @ares3beck @hrgerard we are blaming you.

—

@dancingqueenxx13: @ares3beck have you ever danced with @ares3watney?

@ares3watney: @dancingqueenxx13 @ares3beck no but I would love to

@ares3beck: @ares3watney @dancingqueenxx13 why are you encouraging this

@ares3watney: @dancingqueenxx13 @ares3beck does this mean you won’t dance with me

—

@cjpearson: @ares3lewis when do you get back?

@ares3lewis: @cjpearson Mission Day 898! I don’t know what day that is on Earth, though.

—

@averybossylady: @ares3watney how did you make it through Mars?

@ares3watney: @averybossylady I have a ph.D. in selective denial

—

@waffl3o: The first thing you thought you were going to do when you got back VS what you actually did?

@ares3watney: @waffl3o what I thought - pretty awesome one liners

@ares3watney: @waffl3o what actually happened - mostly crying

—

@dman5156: @ares3watney what is your middle name?

@ares3watney: @dman5156 Richard. My parents call me dick when I’m being annoying.

—

@iwillgotospace: @ares3lewis what made you want to be an astronaut?

@ares3lewis: @iwillgotospace that’s a long answer, but the short version is: The Mercury Thirteen

@iwillgotospace: @ares3lewis THOSE GUYS WERE SO COOL

@ares3watney: @iwillgotospace @ares3lewis THOSE GUYS WERE GIRLS

@iwillgotospace: @ares3watney @ares3lewis YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN

 

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 884

Christ Jesus, it’s orbit day.

The Hermes has been making tiny speed changes and calculations for the past week, putting us in the path of dropping into Earth’s orbit. But, the last part of the procedure has to be done by our own living breathing pilot, Rick Martinez. It’s just a series of tiny changes, but they need to happen in quick succession for us to drop into perfect orbit, and then he has to hang by the console so that NASA can confirm we’re in orbit in the correct position.

He claims he has enough fuel, but with all the adjustments we’ve made so far, he’s working with a tiny percentage of fuel, so he has to have a surgeon’s hands or we’re going to fly off into deep space.

There’s nothing any of us can do, either. We’re just going to sit in our seats with our seat belts on, because that’s protocol, but there’s nothing to be done but watch him pilot us home. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad that life or death isn’t riding on me, but that means the agitation thundering through my arms right now is probably going to evolve into full-blown panic once it’s go time.

For now though, I’m just sitting at the rec room table, pushing breakfast around my plate and trying to calm the ten _million_ butterflies in my stomach.

I look over at Rick, and I can’t believe I’m saying it, but he looks more anxious than I am. He’s spent the last few days practicing his ass off, but the morning of he is just hanging out and mentally preparing.

“You know, I get it now,” I say to him.

He looks up at me, clearly thinking about something else. “What?”

“Why we brought you,” I say.

He laughs softly.

I put a finger up. “But just for this, all right? Don’t get a big head. I’m sure we could figure it out if you weren’t here, anyways.”

Martinez smiled lightly, and I think for a moment I did make him feel better.

-

Melissa Lewis  
Mission Day 884

Lewis was talking to Beck in the hallway.

“You know he’s probably going to take this hard, right?” Lewis said.

Beck nodded. “Yeah.”

Lewis was worried about Watney. She hated that he had to be put through anything more at all, but it was a necessary step to get home. She had complete confidence in Martinez, and had been given no reason to think that they wouldn’t successfully fall into orbit. Her main concern was Watney. He’d been amazing, unbelievable in tight situations, but when the situation was entirely out of his control he had a tendency to decompensate.

Lewis wasn’t concerned for herself or the rest of the crew, they could handle Watney in any situation. She just hated that they all knew what was coming, and there was still nothing they could do for him.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 884

Can someone come make _me_ feel better?

We’re all clicked into our seatbelts in the comm room, and Martinez has his game face on in his seat. NASA is walking Martinez through the launch sequence, and the rest of us are just sitting in our seats. Everyone else looks okay. A little concerned, nervous, but mostly just game face and impatience for this to be over.

I’m trying to resist the urge to fight my seatbelt because I’d really like to be curled up in a corner right now. This feels like a sandstorm all over again, where all I can do is wait for the time to pass and find out if I die or not.

“It’s almost over, Mark,” Beth says from next to me, reaching out to pat my hand.

I don’t grab her hand back, because I’m embarrassed that she needed to do that at all. Their lives are all at stake, too, and they’re not sitting here having a childish freakout. Mental illness, neurological changes, I don’t care, all I know is that we’re a room of highly trained astronauts and I’m the only one whose so nervous they’re wringing their hands together and breathing audibly harshly.

“Ready for Launch,” NASA says.

“Launch,” Martinez says.

There’s not actually a launch, here, just the barely-audible firing of the control jets on the side of the ship.

Martinez’s face is hard with concentration, and we all try not to watch him too hard as he reads the complicated readouts on his screen.

My heart is beating wildly against my chest, but I have enough practice with panic by now that I’m able to still my arms and pretend that it isn’t happening. The only indication I give is ragged breathing and invisible straining against the comm room seatbelt.

Nothing changes, and we’re just watching Martinez move the joysticks in front of him.

My heart continues to beat at my sternum, and for a wild moment I think it’s going to break it’s way out and I’ll have a heart attack. But I don’t say anything, just bring my hand up to my chest as if that can keep my heart in place.

God, this is too fucking drawn out, I can’t handle this, whether or not we all live or die is in this silent room and all I can do is _watch_.

-

Melissa Lewis  
Mission Day 884

She kept her eye on Martinez as he piloted, but there wasn’t much for her to do. His communication was directly with NASA. That left her an eye to keep on Watney.

She could see his white grip wringing his hands together and could see the way his eyes were open a little too wide, but all in all she was extremely impressed, and relieved.

Just as she looked down at Martinez, he leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief as NASA said “Mission Success.”

She let out a breath, smiling. Looks like this day wasn’t going to be so hard after all.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 884

As soon as Martinez whooped, I unchecked myself from that damn seatbelt.

Everyone else was whooping, so I opened my mouth to join in. I’m acting happy and relieved, but my body hasn’t caught up yet, heart still beating against my ribcage like death is right around the corner.

And it might still be. The MAV might fuck up and we might run out of food or the heating could go or something else stupid could happen and it could all be over right before the end. That’s why my heart is still beating against the inside of my chest like it’s searching for escape; the only escape I can really picture in my head is death, whether that’s here or there.

Everyone else is patting Martinez on the back, happily talking, but I fall still. I really want to fake it to make Martinez and everyone else happy, but I just can’t with this heavy lead weight in my chest. I can picture them getting back to earth happy and whole, but not me. I’d like to slip out into the hallway, but someone will follow me, and then we’d have a ‘talk,’ and that’s just an incredibly teenage girl thing to do.

The anxiety is turning into depression fast, hardening into blackness in my chest. My hands aren’t shaking anymore because I can’t make them move, can barely make my face smile and talk along with all the positivity happening in this crammed command center.

Eventually they all file out to go do what they were going to do, and I’m freed from the tiny room. But while they all bounce past the VAL door, I stop short of the turn. I don’t want to turn the corner and see it, and then have someone notice that I saw it, and then _ask_. Because still, the fact nags at me that _what the hell man, you’re almost to earth, why the hell do you still want to die?_

It isn’t bothering me that much right now, though. Right now, nothing is acute suffering or pain or agony. I’m just sad and tired, and I’ve been sad and tired every day for years and I will be sad and tired for the rest of my life. I want to be done being sad and tired.

“You okay?” Lewis asks. She stopped when I did, and now it’s just us floating in the hallway.

 _Yeah, sure, just want to die even though we just got the good news that we all get to live_. I throw a temper tantrum if I’m gonna die, I’m disappointed if I’m gonna live, there’s just no winning with me. I guess I just want it to end on my own terms.

"Yeah, fine,” I mumble in her general direction.

She doesn’t say anything, but instead makes that face, the one that says ‘yeah, right.’

“I’m not in the mood for it,” I mumble next. I just want to be left alone, with no drama or intervention or anything.

Her gaze softens. “Come on,” she says, waving. “We’re all gonna celebrate.”

She bounces away, and I follow because I know I have to.

When my eyes stick on the VAL like they always do, Lewis doesn’t look back.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 885

It’s probably not escaping their notice that I’m moping around more than usual lately.

I should be so damn happy; the chances of us getting to Earth are exceedingly high at this point. There’s nothing to be anxious over. If something breaks, we can get in a lifeboat, and they can get that lifeboat to earth. If the MDV fails, they can build and send another one right quick. For the first time since this whole ordeal began, the odds are actually in our favor.

It’s relieving my anxiety and panic, knowing that the odds are in our favor. But depression is filling the space where it used to be. I’m just completely, utterly unexcited to go home.

I’m excited about individual aspects of it; getting to see my mom, and dad, and Buzz, and eating pizza again and maybe watching a cubs game sounds awesome. But I’m not excited about the whole package, because in between pizza cubs parties with my family, I’m going to be committed to a mental ward, my house gone, all of the Ares III crew are going to be with their families living their lives, and I’m just going to be abandoned to a sterile white room like I have been for the past three years. The life I wanted to return to died on Sol 6 along with Mark Watney.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 888

It’s MDV receiving day, and it’s the same drill as docking day. We’re all in the comm room, watching Martinez fiddle with the controls, knowing that one mistake could break our ship or cost us months or make us starve to death.

It’s the same for me, too, with white fists and a pounding heart. But today my pounding heart is dampened by sadness, and I just can’t get up my usual frenzied panic.

When he’s successful, the crew really starts crying. They look so happy, hugging and cheering. I hug and cheer with them, but it feels far away and distant. My cheers are fake, I can feel the hollow place in my chest they come from, and I can’t feel any of the happiness they feel. I just feel confused and lost.

It dies down, we break apart, and they start to chatter about the good news. I’m content just to listen to their voices. My chest is a mess of hot and light and distant feelings, aching sadness and puffy warmth. I catch myself staring across the group, eyes fixed on the screen. _Reception Successful._

I’m not sad, I don’t think. Or I am sad, but not sad as in suffering and depressed in pain, just sad like I’m never going to be happy again. I’m tired, and sad, and I’m just glad that on earth I’m going to be sad and tired somewhere comfortable and safe. I’m so tired. I’d like to go sleep.

My hand is suddenly warm as someone grabs it, and I realize I must have been noticed. It’s Chris Beck, and he’s looking at me. Vogel, too, standing over me, concerned. Actually, it appears that the entire crew crowded around me and stopped talking and I didn’t even realize.

“Sorry, sorry,” my mouth says automatically. I didn’t mean to steal all the attention away. That’s actually exactly what I don’t want; what I want is to be forgotten, put away in a drawer where I can just be sad and tired and go to sleep and never wake up.

“Hey Mark,” Martinez says. “How did the astronauts know they were going home?”

I lift my tired eyes to look at him.

“Because the pilot had found his Mark.”

The pun was lame, but the phrase _found his Mark_ nestled somewhere in my chest between when Lewis said _you can rest_ and when Beck said _we need you_. It didn’t quite pierce the cloudy sadness in my chest, but it made it a little more warm.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 891

“We’re going home!” Beth yells into the rec room.

They’ve been doing this ever since the MDV was docked, just yelling about how we’re going home randomly.

I give her the token smile she’s looking for, and go back to the pointless typing I’m doing on my laptop.

Her eyes narrow at me. “You know, Mark, I would swear you’re not excited about it.”

I shrug, not looking up from the laptop. I’m sad, I’m tired, I just want to go to bed and preferably never wake up again.

“What’s going on?” she pries.

“Nothing, Johanssen, I’m fine,” I mumble, frustrated.

“Come on, Watney -“

“Leave it be.”

Her eyes flare. “No! This is what you’ve fought for since this all started, and you’re acting like you don’t care at all. I’m not going to leave it alone, especially not when that could cost you your life.”

I look up at her, and her blue eyes are staring into me with passion.

Frustration kicks up from somewhere inside of me. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”

I try to return to typing, because I can’t get away from supervision on this ship, but she doesn’t let go. “It isn’t like that. I’m trying to help you.”

“What would help is if I could be left alone for five seconds!” I burst out.

And to my horror, it’s true. The afraid, traumatized part of me that always wants a hug is in hiding right now, and the only thing I find inside myself is the overwhelming urge to crawl into a hole and die.

The memory of the vicodin in Beck’s quarters flashes to life. Do I want to have another crisis before landing? I could take some or all of those white pills. Would it materially affect how locked up I am later? Would it really matter at all?

“Based on what you’ve said before, that’s not really what you want,” she says suspiciously.

“Well this time, it is,” I say, voice hard. “Look, if I pinky promise not to kill myself, will you please let me sulk somewhere alone?”

She shook her head. “No. Because what if you have a flashback or something? I don’t want you to have to suffer alone.”

The answer warms my heart, but instead a sneer crosses my face, an emotional wall to keep out the truth.

“You can sulk over there if you want,” she said, pointing to the chair.

I weigh her offer, take her up on it. I turn the chair towards earth and away from her, and sulk, doing my best to forget that she or anyone else is here.

I just want to crawl into a hole, go to sleep and never wake up.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 891

Why is it that when I most want to sleep, I can’t?

Martinez is completely knocked out next to me on the gym floor, but I’m just tossing and turning.

7 days until we leave for earth. I can’t sleep, and it’s supposed to be because I feel like a kid at christmastime, but instead it’s because I have this awful twisting feeling in my gut that lurches anytime I get close to falling asleep.

The reason I’m not dying to get back to earth is because I no longer think it’s going to be any better. The Hermes was a huge step up from Mars, and so it deserved happy crying and cheering, but Earth just feels like it’s going to be more of the same here. Sterile white clean rooms, crappy reconstituted food, and as a bonus everyone I love is going to go back to their lives and forget about me.

Fuck, fuck, I wish I could stay here just a bit longer, where I can shake Martinez awake whenever I feel like I’m choking on depression, where if I’m in a flashback Beck will set my hand to the floor until I come back, where they haven’t left me. Because when we get back to earth they are just going to leave me, again, and this time it’s going to be permanent. They’re not going to come back because of guilt, or obligation, because once we’re all home there is no more obligation and it will just fall away.

I want to go get up and stare at the VAL, and I don’t _want_ to wake Martinez up, because as soon as he’s home he’s going to leave me behind too. I don’t see what the point of going through all the fuss for an intervention is if it doesn’t even matter anyways.

Then again, this might be my last chance for a big damn intervention like this. But do I want it if it’s fake?

Well, if it’s fake though, it’s fake. I can’t tell him why I want to go stare out the VAL this time, because I won’t be able to bear the look on his face that says ‘yeah, you’re right.’

And anyways, I owe them this. They saved my life, they picked me up on the face of hell, they deserve to rest easy and go home to their families knowing they did good. If it takes me being quiet and out of the way in a mental ward to keep their hearts together, then that’s what I’ll do. I owe them this.

And as I lower myself into the blankets for cold and restless sleep, I say to myself; I can always kill myself tomorrow.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 893

It was only a matter of time. They’re all talking about how excited they are to _have sex_ when they get back. They’re in the rec room and it’s breakfast, so I’m forced to listen to this while munching on my cereal.

Martinez, a true catholic, refuses to share the details, saying only that Marissa’s ‘full in all the right places.’

“But haven’t you ever wondered about other women?” Beth asks curiously. “I mean, you’ve only ever been with her.”

Martinez closes his eyes and smiles. “When you got a woman like that you don’t need no one else, man.”

I roll my eyes. Another day, I might have been into the crass line of conversation, but like most days today I am just not feeling it. I’m probably never going to have sex again, and to be perfectly honest I just don’t care all that much. Chasing women in my twenties and early thirties never really paid off, and without the connection all sex is is slopping body parts together. No thanks.

“What about you, _Beth_ ,” Martinez snickers. “You ever wonder about other women?”

“That’s not how bisexuality works,” she says, rolling her eyes. “It’s not like when I’m with a man, I miss women. People are people, dude.”

Martinez knows this, and Johanssen knows Martinez knows this, but Martinez’s eternally fifteen year old sense of humor just can’t resist.

“I’m just excited to have sex in 1g,” Beck admits.

“I’m excited to have sex at all!” Martinez says. “I’m sick of my hands, right and left.”

Lewis cringes from across the room, and Johanssen says “Jesus, Martinez.” Vogel says nothing, trying to be dignified and not participate.

Martinez turns to me. “So what about you, dude? You had a lot of time - did you learn how to left-hand it?” he asked, waggling his eyebrows.

“I didn’t even right-hand it, dude,” I say, shaking my head. I’m not above crass humor, but _Jesus, Martinez._

“Not even once?”

I’m annoyed. Please leave me alone. “No.”

“All that time alone?”

All that time alone, all I was worried about was how _I was alone on an entire fucking planet_ and _I am going to die buried in the sand forgotten._

I slam down the fork I’m holding. “Being left on a planet to die is a bit of a mood killer.”

I’m cruelly glad about the way Martinez’s face turned to one of horror, realizing he went a step too far.

He’s trying to apologize, but I’m already on my way out of the rec room.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 895

It’s time for a video chat with Dr. Bossy Beck and Dr. Irene Shields, now that we’re close enough to earth. They wanted to debrief me personally for the descent to earth, given my new status as certifiable.

“I’m not going to lie to you; we anticipate this will be difficult for you,” Dr. Shields says, “But unfortunately due to the ‘health requirements of descent,’ we can’t give you any medication to ease the experience.” I always appreciate her upfront manner.

I shrug. Every time I need medication is exactly when NASA says ‘no, you need all your brain cells.’

“You know, I fixed up the MAV and I was high as shit the whole time,” I say.

Dr. Shields gives me a withering look. “That was not NASA sanctioned.”

I roll my eyes. NASA sanctioned my ass.

“NASA has already delivered me a report,” Beck says. ““Patient will likely pass out,” NASA says. “Due to less than ideal weight and health.” Mark, I recommend not fighting it when that happens, there’s really no reason for you to be awake.”

“I’m more worried about having a flashback and trying to tear apart the ship or something,” I joke weakly. I am; every nightmare I have about the MAV involves me trying to fling myself out of it into deep space.

“Those chairs have a lot of buckles, it would take a lot of coordination to work them, and that’s not something anyone has during a flashback,” Beck says. “I don’t think it will be a major concern.”

“I would like to bring something up,” Beck continues. “Did NASA sign off on anti-nausea medication? I want to take the precaution, since we couldn’t handle emesis in the flight suit on a descent.”

Dr. Shields looked through her papers. “It looks like Dr. Keller approved him for metoclopramide, if you have that on ship.”

Beck nodded.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk to Dr. Watney alone,” Dr. Shields said.

Beck nodded easily, knowing this was coming, and picked up his tablet and left.

She smiled gently, putting the clipboard down.

“So, they want to institutionalize you upon your return,” she said gently.

I swallowed, saying nothing.

“At first, you’re going to be isolated in a clean room. They’re worried about your weakened immune system. Dr. Keller already told Beck, and he’s told the team. But you’re probably going to be held longer.”

Great, extended time in a sterile white room with windows I can’t open and an airlock to get in and out that I can’t use. Great.

“After that, they want to transition you to inpatient facilities. I don’t know if you know this, but Drs. Beck and Johanssen have been campaigning to let you move directly to outpatient, and have you live with them.”

I perk up. “Really?” My chest is warm.

She smiles. “Yeah. They’re been pushing it really hard, and I think it’s a good idea. It’s just against standard protocol for suicidal patients, but I keep trying to say there is no standard protocol for this. Every piece of evidence suggests that once you return to earth, you won’t have such strong urges anymore.”

I’m not so sure about that one, but I don’t say anything. Instead I let the warm feeling of acceptance puff me up. I get to go home with Beck and Johanssen. I’m not going to get abandoned to some puffy room. My eyes water ever so slightly, and I blink back the tears.

“Uh, NASA basically wanted me to talk to you about your ‘conduct upon egress,’” she laughs. “They don’t want you being noncooperative with the doctors who are picking you up after descent.”

I furrow my brows. “I won’t be noncooperative if they aren’t huge jerks.”

She sighed. “They’re infectious disease specialists in clean suits. They’re gonna be huge jerks.”

We talk a little more about what NASA expects out of me, but soon enough the conversation is over and I’m alone in the rec room.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 895

I walk into my lab to find both Beck and Johanssen there, already conveniently alone.

“Hey,” I say lamely, standing in the doorway.

Johanssen raises an eyebrow. “Hey,” she says back.

I rub the back of my neck, looking at the floor. “Dr. Shields told me about… about what you wanted for my outpatient,” I mumble.

Johanssen shakes her head, confused. “Yeah? What about it?”

I don’t know how to communicate what I’m feeling. I thought they were going to abandon me in a hospital. They still might, but it’s not going to be immediate, they’re not going to let go just yet. I have a reason to hold on for a little longer. I don’t have to feel so hollow and empty and _worthless_ because they think I’m worth holding on to even after we get back to earth.

“I was surprised,” is what I choose to say.

She shrugs. “We talked about this, remember? We want you to be near us.”

“It was in passing, I didn’t think you were serious.” Oh, I thought and thought and thought about it, but I didn’t think they for-real really meant it. I figured they were just saying it to be nice, that my hospitalization would get in the way, that it just wouldn’t end up being that big a deal.

The hollow sad emptiness is chased away a little, feels like it’s been wrapped in a warm blanket.

“You okay Mark?” Beck asks, ever perceptive.

I look down again. I don’t want to explain what’s going through my mind, because like we’ve been over already, I am not worth the time and the space and the air it takes to explain. I can’t find the energy to try. I’ve already been given way more than I deserve.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” I say, sitting in the chair by my laptop.

I’m getting used to the dichotomy; one side of me begging for the attention and the intervention, the other just studiously staring at the floor and waiting for it to be over.

Beck accepts my crap excuse, and they go back to talking about whatever it is they were talking about.

There’s nothing worse than someone asking what’s wrong, you responding fine, and them just accepting it.

Something cold settles in next to the warmth; they’re letting me in their lives now, but it won’t be forever. This just pushes back the date, but it will be the same outcome. Them, all moving on with their perfect lives and me, broken and alone.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 896

“The plan is just like the Mars descent,” Lewis said. “Pretty simple. We shut everything down, pile in the MDV with our stuff, and descend.”

She walks us through the exact procedures, who will be doing what, where, when. Everyone’s got a short list of things they need to shut down and make sure are in order, and most of it is just polite tidying so the next team doesn’t walk into a mess. My role in all the procedures is pretty simple.

“Watney,” she said. “The morning of, you’re going to be with Beck. You do whatever he tells you to do, eat whatever he tells you to eat, and take whatever he tells you to take. Got it?”

I nod roughly. I feel bad for not contributing more to the team, but frankly, it doesn’t take a lot of people to shut down the Hermes. The Hermes has really easy to use shutdown buttons. If they get started an hour earlier, they won’t need me at all.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 897

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

Now that it’s actually here, tomorrow, I admit it. I’m excited.

I don’t care if it’s going to be sad and tired for the rest of my life, because at least I get to go to Earth, go home, see my parents, see the movies I like, and hey, I’ll be fucking rich because of all the settlement money probably, and I have no idea how I’m supposed to get to bed tonight when I know that tomorrow night I am going to be falling asleep on an earth bed -

_Don’t count your chickens before they hatch, Watney._

Okay, okay. Tomorrow, one way or another, it’s going to be over.

Everyone’s been kind of bouncing around the ship, not saying much. Nobody wants to jinx it, I think, so we’re just been making this artificial polite conversation that we all know is a buttload of crap.

I’m finally smiling, widely, standing and looking out the window at earth. The very sight brings tears to my eyes. It’s everything I fought to come home to, green wet jungles and billions of alive people and natural air. Everything that’s good and right in this solar system is here.

-

Log Entry  
Mission Day 898

It’s the last day of the Ares III mission. We’re going home today.

God, I don’t even know what to say. Thank you everyone who helped get me back home, even if you just made a #BringHimHome tweet or even if you spent six hundred days of your life stalking me. I don’t know who’s going to read these logs, but I know _someone_ is going to. So thank you.

I don’t feel happy, exactly. My chest feels too small, like there’s too many big and hot emotions piling up inside of it. My eyes are watering and I don’t even know if I’m sad or happy or what the hell is going on.

I’ve already packed up all my personal effects. In a half hour I’m going to take that box, put on a flight suit, climb in the EDV, and ride a controlled explosion down to Earth. We’re going to land on a random cold field in the middle of Russia. I’m going to take off that fucking flight suit, and for the first time in years I am going to breathe air that didn’t come out of a can.

NASA is going to take a fleet of cars the size of an army and immediately throw me in an ambulance, but for the ten minutes between landing and them finding us, I am going to get to lay on blessed earth dirt.

I’m going to kiss that dirt. I am going to put my face on that dirt and kiss it, and if I get dirt in my mouth all the better. That’s what I stayed alive for, after all.

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 898

Fuck, I’m scared. Why am I scared? I don’t want to do this, I want to go hide in my bunkroom. What the hell is wrong with me? Don’t I want to see my mom? Kiss that amazing earth dirt? Eat pizza and watch the cubs?

I’m just standing stock still outside the airlock to the EDV, watching everyone put on their flight suits.

“How you feeling, Watney?” Lewis asks, working with her own suit.

I’m actually having trouble getting my limbs moving. I don’t want to put this flight suit on. I think it’s because last time I put on a flight suit and left the Hermes, I got abandoned on a planet for 18 months.

“Scared,” is what I finally say.

Dr. Shields has spoken to us all about the distinct possibility I’ll lose my shit and start to tear apart the EDV, so they all think I’m just scared of the actual space flight.

“It’s all right,” Beck says. “We’ve covered our bases.”

They’re all almost done, but I haven’t even put on my flight suit yet.

“Mark, come on,” Johanssen says.  “It’s time to go, get in the suit.  You just have to get through this, and then you’re home.” 

I swallow roughly, and grab the flight suit. She’s right.

_Man up, Watney. Get in the suit. Go home._

I was hoping that once I put on the suit, the calm feeling of go-time would settle over me. But no, as I strapped the suit together, all I felt was my heart jumping into my own throat. My hands are shaking too badly to do this all myself, so Johanssen helps me with all the patience she can muster.

I clambered into the descent vehicle last, and strapped myself in. Everyone else was already looking at me with concern, but I stared at the wall opposing me. The memory of the convertible was fresh in my mind. But this is not a convertible. There is no tarp over the top of the ship, it has all it’s hull panels, and has three sets of comms systems. I hold on to these facts.

“You fine?” Beck asked. 

“Define ‘fine,’” I panted. My chest is hurting badly, and I am resisting the urge to reflexively fight the restraints we all have.

Lewis looked over from next to me, and pulled my straps tighter in an act of concern. I couldn’t blame her.

The engines fired up, _roaring_ , and my gut dropped through the floor. If I could cover my ears, I would have.

Thank God Beck at least gave me anti-nausea medication, or I would have vomited all over the inside of my helmet by now.

“Just ten minutes, then it’s all gonna be over,” came Johanssen’s reassuring voice through the helmet radio. She has a nice voice, and I hold onto it like a lifeline.

NASA hopped on the radio on that moment.

“Begin pre-flight procedures,” says Mission Control.

“Copy,” Lewys says. “CAPCOM.”

“Go,” Johanssen responded.

“Guidance.”

“Go,” Johanssen said again.

“Pilot.”

“Go,” said Martinez.

“Telemetry.”

“Go.” Johanssen responded.

“Mission control, this is Hermes Actual,” Lewis reported. “We are go for launch and will proceed on schedule. We are T minus two minutes, 30 seconds to launch.”

Beck is sitting next to me in the EDV, and he has been placed on full-time keep-Mark-calm duty until I’m secured on the ambulance. He doesn’t say anything, the atmosphere in the cabin all business.

My heart is lodged in my throat.

“Five, four, three, two, one…”

The EDV shoots out of the sky toward Earth, a small rocket pushing it into free fall.

Unlike launching away from a planet, the g forces build slowly as we enter free fall. My heart stays lodged in my throat as we begin our descent towards earth, and I can hear my own breaths getting shorter and shorter.

“It’s okay to pass out,” Lewis said. I think they’d prefer I passed out. Melissa, I’d love to, but my body has other plans.

We’re gaining speed, and I can feel myself getting smashed against my seat.

Suddenly, I’m not with them anymore.  I’m staring out a missing hull panel, staring up at the tarp which is ripping away from my ship. Staring at that one weird, five-sided bolt, rocketing towards my death.

“I’m just having a flashback,” I said to myself, trying to hold on to that.  “I’m not on the MAV, I’m on the EDV.  I’m going home.” The crushing g forces feel the same either way. There’s nothing to hold on to.

There were windows, staring at the blackness of space, the ripped tarp giving me a wide open view of the endless black stars that I was going to die amongst. It was cooler to die floating around in space than on that god forsaken rock, if a little bittersweet that it was so close to victory.

A rough shake brought me back to reality as our descent rocket roared to life.  The atmosphere had insane turbulence, and I felt myself being thrown around in the chair aggressively. 

“Watney!” a voice cut into my head.  The comms, Lewis yelling at me. 

“What?” I slurred back, the images of the MAV still flickering in my head like a bad tv tape.

“Stay with us,” she commanded forcefully. I had no idea how I was supposed to do that.

It was like trying to do something while half asleep; I tried to hold on to the thought that this was _not the convertible MAV_ , but I kept forgetting and suddenly I was floating in that inky space, completely helpless. The roaring sound was around me all the same.

Oh God, I’m going to suffocate out here because they will miss me.  Oh, but I’ll hear them on the radio, talking to me as I give them my final wishes.  At least I get to talk to someone verbally before I die.

-

Melissa Lewis  
Mission Day 898

Lewis couldn’t help but think that Watney was never going to be cleared to own a gun again, let alone go into space.

He was hunched over in his chair, as much as anyone could be while strapped into one.  He was clearly having a flashback, not responding to his comms and staring at the wall of the EDV like it was something else he saw there.

‘In the middle of a flashback’ was not a great place to be when descending to earth, because you might need to pull the emergency levers and eject yourself from the cab in case they were to fall into an ocean, or a missile hit the vessel, or any of the ridiculous eventualities NASA plans for. Luckily all of Watney’s levers were within reaching distance of Vogel, who sat on Watney’s other side.

-

Mark Watney  
Sol 549

I am drifting in space. The crew didn’t save me. I’m going to die out here, cold and alone without even 70’s disco to keep me company.

The crew hadn’t saved me, I was lost here. No one was talking to me. I was going to die out here, cold and alone and not even Melissa’s 70’s tv shows to keep me company.

Wait, that’s not right. Beck reeled me in, I remember him peeking around the opening in the MAV, remember him clipping himself to me.

For a moment, I see him. But he’s gone again, and I’m trapped in space.

I must not be getting enough oxygen. I wasn’t rescued, they aren’t out here, I’m floating alone.

-

Crew  
Mission Day 898

Their turbulent free fall evened out as they fell through the sky towards earth. Their deceleration boosters had activated, and now they were in free fall until it was time to deploy the parachutes.

“His breathing is shallowing out,” Beck said, kicking Mark from his seat next to him. “But he looks conscious.”

“Mark, if you can hear us, the parachutes are deploying soon,” Lewis said. “We will be on the ground in twenty minutes.”

A huge unfurling sound and sudden pressure jerked the cab.  “See?” Lewis yelled.  “There’s the parachutes.”

-

Mark Watney  
Mission Day 898

The jerking motion threw me backwards, and my head knocked against the headrest.  It was enough to jolt me backwards in time to hear Martinez say “parachutes deployed.”

“What?” I blinked my eyes hard, confused.  My lungs didn’t have enough air, and I began working overtime to fill them.

“We will be on the ground within ten minutes, which means we’ll be recovered within the hour,” Lewis said.  “Mark, you’re home.”

She was right, I knew she was, with the parachutes successfully deployed there was just about no circumstance that could kill us now. Even if the parachutes dropped us, we’d land on the ground with serious injuries, but thanks to all the padding and prep, we wouldn’t die.  We were safer than a car driving on the highway. 

 “Oh my God, I survived,” I say, throat dry.  “Oh my God, Mars didn’t kill me.”

“You survived, Mark,” Lewis agrees, and I swear I heard pride in her voice. “You survived 549 sols on Mars, alone, with no backup.”

“Don’t forge the months he survived on the Hermes with us!” Martinez laughed. 

I laughed, but my laughter soon turned to tears. Not _again_ , crying inside my helmet, it’s disgusting every time. But I don’t dwell on the mess, because there’s a feeling in my chest and it’s big and it’s hot and I can’t stop myself from sobbing in my seat.

“I get to see Earth again!” I sob “I’m going to see my mom and dad, and Buzz, and go to the movies and see all the remakes I missed, and watch anything that isn’t 70s sitcoms. I’m gonna go outside naked just because I can. I’m going to hug a tree. I’m going to -”

“We know,” Johanssen laughed.  “We haven’t been home in a while either.”

“I’m going to kiss that sandy Russian field we land on,” I was babbling now, unbelievably excited.  “I’m going to write little missives in the next Ares supply runs, and they’re just going to say “fuck you Mars, I win.””

The rest of the crew was abjectly smiling, for their victory as much as mine.  This was it, our real victory, rescuing me and making it home in one piece.

“Fuck you Mars,” I repeated, laughing.  “Fuck you Mars!  I won when you blew up my Hab and decompressed my suit multiple times and broke my pathfinder and gave me all those panic attacks after I fixed up the Hab and I won when I grew those fucking potatoes and I win now! Fuck you MARS!”

“Watney, the comms, our volume,” Vogel said, and Beck shoved me on his behalf. 

For ten minutes it’s just me, crying and babbling and yelling and nobody else able to get in a word edgewise. They start crying too after a couple minutes, and I’m sobbing loud and wet and my entire chest hurts with the effort of heaving against the seat restraints.

We feel a bump - more of a pretty serious impact, really - but finally the ground met our EDV.

“Are we on the ground?” I asked with barely contained excitement.  We weren’t moving, but I had to make sure.

“Yes-” Martinez said, and that’s all I needed.

I tore the straps off of my chair, and launched myself at the door, swinging the handle open and tumbling in my 100kg spacesuit to the shitty desert that the Hermes EDV lands in. I tore my helmet off too, probably set a speed record for how fast a person can get out of a spacesuit.  I collapsed on the ground as promised, the heavy gravity of earth immediately pulling me down.

I did kiss the dirt, too, but the dirt was bad-tasting and the grass was scratchy and the dirt made my teeth feel rough.

“Watney!” Lewis stormed out, ready to chastise me for disobeying command.

“What are you going to do, revoke my right to fly?” I snarked, unable to contain myself.

I didn’t stay irritated long. I’m laying flat on my stomach, head against the dirt, staring at sky. 

Clear blue sky as far as the eye can see.

I can’t fucking believe it; I never thought I’d see this again. I can’t fucking believe it, I actually made it home.

I’m crying now, and I’ve cried in front of them so much at this point that I don’t even think to hide it. The sky is blue, there are wild plants growing in the dirt right beneath me, there’s dirt beneath my fingers with bacteria and smells. The air is clean and crisp and didn’t come out of a can, and I can smell the life in it.

“Fuck you, Mars. I win.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Mark is not seeing himself clearly. He is a very bighearted person, and he even was back then. He would have tweeted #BringHimHome. Maybe he wouldn’t have been passionate about the cause, but he’d have wanted the guy to come home.  
> \- Questions and Answers taken from the tumblr accounts @ares3watney, @ares3johanssen, @ares3martinez, e.t.c.  
> \- Decompensate, in the mental illness world, is when a patient who is functioning or okay suddenly becomes not-okay and treatment doesn’t help. It’s like overnight, the treatment just stops working. And then one day, it starts working again. Fun and arbitrary, just how I like my healthcare.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my God, it's over! Writing this has been such an amazing experience. In addition to getting to know the crew of Ares III really well, I've been getting emails and reviews and messages like crazy. All the positive reviews have gone a long way towards giving me the courage to write original fiction, and the courage to keep writing stuff even if I feel like it's stupid or bad or embarrassing. Thank you, everyone, genuinely.
> 
> \----
> 
> I write original fiction and nonfiction too! Take a look. (http://eepurl.com/dfSrvL).
> 
> The story I'm currently working on actually uses the same emotional tone and point of view I used here, so if that interests you head on over.


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